Fumé-fymey.

I know I should be steering a lot out of my guts instead of dancing to the rhythm of boundless slack through the fumes of mediocrity flaring through this bonfire called life.

I should be dwelling on the tranquility of the words that make up my vocabulary; if not for the purpose of meeting your unknown desires, then for my own selfish scribe needs.

My mid-night lantern should be burning and over burning. My kettle, whistling more times than it should; just to keep my coffee heated and my brain cells wide awake for the scribble of alphabets to show themselves in response to my exhortation.

But the meters need a new fix, because a new and unfamiliar level of greatness is that which we seek for, is what we crave for, is why we scratch the top and back of our heads with bent fingernails and wear irregular buttoned shirts with ink stains day after day just to then deny ourselves of basic mans wants. It’s why our reading glasses are crooked and should only be straightened after we crack and break knuckles to let the world and ourselves know that yet again a master piece has been created.

I should be in a white sheer dress, lifting my arms high, shutting my eyes calmly, letting my hair touch the wind and not the wind touch my hair, I should be smiling with gay spirits in my guts; luring somewhere in my mid-section – there where ordinary people get to feel butterflies, I should be without care and swerving my body in the rhythm of soul touching music.