Eat The Cake

I haven't got much time.

I'm not dying or anything. I just have a limited number of minutes before needing to do something else.

Of course, we're all dying really, when you think about it. If we've been poisoned. And we have.

Well, I say we. I didn't eat any of that cake because I knew it was poisoned because I poisoned it because I wanted everyone (except me) to die from poisoning.

So you're all dying. If you ate the poisoned cake. Which you didn't because it's imaginary because I didn't poison the cake because I don't want anyone (except me) to die from poisoning.

I just ate the poison. It saved on baking time.

I'm dying.

Where was I?

Oh yes: I haven't got much time.

I can't afford to get distracted. But then who can, in today's economic climate? No-one. People are selling off distractions. People are using distractions as activities in their own right, thanks to Greece and Enron and Obama and Tottenham and Alex Oxlade-Chamberlain.

We could distract ourselves by thinking back to the halcyon days of perpetual distraction; back before the bubble burst. But nostalgia is an unnecessary luxury in today's days and ages.

So no distractions. Only actions.

No destruction. Only uction.

Uctions speak louder than words. (But not as loud as auctions, which can be deafening).

Still, here I am, trying to make the best of a bad situation. To do that, you need a bad situation. That's what this is. That's what these words comprise.

I'm writing my way into trouble, and will then escape from it at the last minute, giving everyone a boost (not the chocolate bar).

All I need is a topic (not the chocolate bar). Something that will generate a recession-reversing bounty (not the chocolate bar). A real Galaxy Caramel.

Time is running out. The sand in the hourglass is falling through faster than a deal to save the economy. (Meaningless. Absolutely meaningless.)

Still, I think I'm onto something.

Moving, I think I'm onto something.

Whether stationary or not, there's still a thing upon which I sit.

I can only imagine how painful this is for you. But I didn't like my last post, and I wanted something to replace it at the top of the heap.

This is a stream of consciousness. People don't find those kinds of streams interesting. People like streams with pebbles and kingfishers.

Me and Joyce against the world!

I'd better rescue this post with a poem. Because prose is too clumsy a weapon. I've been heaving it hither and thither like a scimitar, smacking and slicing the undergrowth and overgrowth, getting nowhere in no time flat.

Poetry is subtle (though no Stanley knife).

Here is a poem:

(And keep in mind, time is running out. The stream still flows.)

Mitch flicked a chip
It landed in a burnished bowl
The proprietress (stern) examined the potato explorer
She snorted
And Mitch
Caught in mid apology
Fell on his sword and left a generous tip

***

I should drink less coffee.

***

I wrote the above a little while ago. But I'm not going to go back and edit anything. This is a snapshot of my life an hour ago.

The truth isn't always pleasant.