The Block

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The Block

Post by shootbootleg »

10 hours they gave me
And out of them 10
Were spoiled to itsy bits
And fast forwarded into nothingness,
By me staring at the typewriter
That doesn’t really know what criminal acts,
And no proofread facts
It’s used for.

Half the time (of those 600 minutes)
Meaning 300 minutes divided by 10
Is 30
Is the number of cigarettes I swallowed
With my lungs
Or was it 20, ‘cause the mess on table
is just another mature fable
Of junk, mature magazines and happy hankies,
I used up.

About 30, again,
Sheets of paper were filled up with nonsense,
Some of them with very good nonsense,
Some of them just plain nothing, pale sitting,
Always hitting back at my afraid ill’ head
That this block will continue and never will unfold,
As far as I am told,
You will never really write until you sit and type,
Despite they’re thinking you’re no good.
"Sickness, insanity and death were the angels that surrounded my cradle and they have followed me throughout my life." -Edvard Munch-

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