Having a Job

Here I am breaking my back for the creation of liquor. Here I am a cog in an alcoholic wheel, pressure washing away motivation to write or create with the liquefied wheat and souring mash and incense burns dangerously close to flammable elements. Hold your eyelids open with paperclips and push through this existence in a full running leopard stride, chasing after the gazelles of dreams and wide eyed antelope race. Lasso and pull their antlers to the ground. The antlers of your wildest hopes and incomprehensible motives.

Body makes creaking sounds and grumbles with the malnurishment. The vile sounds of indigestion and filling up all ventricles with empty sludge.

When you sleep through alarms and phone calls lay off the late night edibles. When there is wheat mash in your hair, have a coffee and then write. Write like a maniac and never forget what you have to say.

When sounds of jazz cause lethargic breathing difficulties and Friday nights are spent perspiring in cages rather than out free in the world of art.


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