7005. TOWARDS LIFE IS TOWARDS DEATH

TOWARDS LIFE IS 
TOWARDS DEATH
They all run together, and how can I talk to you,

you never stop to listen and your concerns are somewhere

else. This is my intention  -  I might as well say it now  -  

to outlast this malarkey until the grave is shut. There's

never a final shovel-full to be for me : I'll keep pushing

back the bastard lid until it cracks. You'll see.

-

Think if I was a turkey somewhere, on some lame-ass turkey

farm, and it was getting to be near mid-October : you know damn

well I'd know what was up, what was coming, what was about to

happen. My wattle would be moving, my legs escaping fast. But!

Nowhere to go, old fellow, nowhere not at all. The November

freezer beckons. Thanksgiving every year! Well, see it's the same.

-

I'm creased and I'm hammered, and I'm stuck, and I'm scared.

I'm reluctant and angry, and don't want to move a muscle or

take a breath. Living this stuff is every day, and  -  always  -  
towards life is towards death.