I got nothing; Inspire me.
I blame turtles. . they're so slow and boring.
Do they even have a taste?
Taste is important.
Turtle soup is that a real thing?
They are green; as colors go. . . .that's good.
I blame Wal Mart, and Honda Civic's and college ruled notebook paper, and "not Heinz" Ketchup, and you, (see all boring things).
ok some imagery perhaps;
snakes. . .children. . .sidewalks.. . beard, boring.
Ahhh Shel Silverstein! shit no no no, peaches, cream
Peaches and Cream hand cream. . .cream. Uggh.
Pen. . . . . . . write!
Pen, . .write? right?
Muse, put on something sexy; I'm "feeling" no inspiration, Muse?
I'm sorry page, or is it Page, little obnoxious blinking cursor.
Ok, there was a girl, a boy, no. . . .
There was a transgender w/ a puppy, named "Taylor,"
both named "Taylor," maybe.
Good start, really solid I'd say.
Get a quill maybe, dip it in ink, Shakespeare in Love? The world is a stage. ok good.
A house on the upper east side
Wait! a studio in Brooklyn. . . .No.
A box on Skid Row.
Yes a transgender living in a box on Skid Row, the band. . . scratch that the place,
with a puppy named "Taylor," both named "Taylor."
I'm doing this for you,
I'm doing this for me? No.
I'm doing this for Bukowski.
Ok now write Britishly, ok and now pinky up. . .
A typewriter? (cave drawings maybe), finger paint this perhaps.
The blue represents Taylor with balls, the red well that's "shim" with a vagina;
he/she is pre opp and pre-menstrual ok?
Taylor worked in finance, or . . .telemarketing;
I mean Taylor was a retired dancer, a ballerina perhaps.
The box on Skid Row was a social experiment, like pop rocks and parachute pants or Candy camera;
Taylor had his whole life savings at Washington Mutual; quite "loaded" really
and a box, a shitty, brown, damp, smaller than a refrigerator
Fuck. . .fuckety fuck fuck fuck me.
Nothing here, write! write!
Taylor wore heels.
Lets call him "Bobby" now; oooh how androgenous.
Bobby wore leather flats; cute flats.
Taylor liked pudding; shit, we're calling him Bobby now.
Neither would "go gently into that good night."
this is blocked, this is a writer, meet. . .welcome.
Hello, this is writers block.
Bobby is dead.
The box was in a twister, in NYC; yes a NYC twister.
Sorry for the "Howl."
Ink, type, pen.
Damn't you're boring,
Ehhh, perhaps something next week.