writers' block

I’ll be damned if I’ll leave here without me. I’ll sit here and stare at this grey grey grey screen until my eyes bleed and my nose runs. With any luck it will run around the block, thus saving me the trouble. With any luck it’ll be the Writer’s Block. Wouldn’t that be a win? With my luck all I’d gain would be a blocked nose. A block and a tackle, all wound up with shoelace the size of my head — just the thing to bootstrap some sort of a story. A trick to tackle. A ticklish trackle, all wound up with solace. All wound up at solstice. A Summer-sun standstill, a mexicorn standoff, a gumshot, a wound. The whey my eyes bleed with a mist-Summer’s why. But I’ll be damned if I’ll leave this world without me.

Patch me through, Spotty, cast the beam from my skies. Patch me up and let me live let me word let me thrive let me thresh let me wyrd watch me dance watch me scive – as she patches me through to the stargate beyonder and the edge of the world stands before and be-under. Let me through, let me through, let me through. My head turns a turdstyle, I stand in the awesome, the Sun and the Thunder, and your dunderstruck standstill runs umble and under. And who cares the trouble? The Trickster, the Juggler! All those of my pentheon rumble the umbler. Nett so, says the Fickler, hound’s guru and tickler still stay stateous stickler and tarry, and tarry, and tarry a Muckler. So turns round my rhyme to the thyme of the year when the Sun’s Summer standstill makes froth in small beer. So we’re all summer tickled ‘til our soulscrape runs wry and I’m damned ‘cos I lived and I lived ‘til I died, and stood there forever and ever and ever, and stare down the stargate’s infinite whether. And I’ll be damned if I’ll leave here without me.