Sometimes, in fact pretty often lately, not unlike the storm clouds from Antartica that roll and storm over Table Mountain, my rage erupts like over-boiled milk in a cheap, battered aluminium pot that's way too small to contain its anger-rage-boil.
My rage at me, and at my complacency; at my inability to get off my fucking middle class arse.
Rage at the inability to be honest in my words, at my inability to write out my life; at my inability to live intensely, deeply, passionately, to suck out and swallow the marrow from the bone of my life.
I am close to erupting and to fuckingwell explode into words, to sear and cook my own meat-flesh with the moltem lava of my words and truth.
The rage. The rage.
Where are my balls