Wednesday, September 11, 2013

The rage at this particular mortal coil

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

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