From the new collected poems:
Morning, noon and bloody night
Seven sodding days a week,
I slave at filthy work, that might
Be done by any book-drunk freak.
This goes on till I kick the bucket:
FUCKITFUCKITFUCKITFUCKIT
From somewhere selse,
"As Camus put it, “It is necessary to fall in love … if only to provide
an alibi for all the random despair you are going to feel anyway.”"
Corrections to the blogosphere, the consensus, and the world
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