A practice session

[Wat_Tyler]

Rain . . . .


Taking my own advice,
I have no idea what to write today.
But I’m going to write
Because Jesus hates a pussy,
And I, Dear Reader, ain’t no pussy.

I don’t know about you
(and I probably don’t want to),
But the best days of all,
The ones with the bestest weather,
The pretty ones,
Are the days right after
The ginormous hurricane blows out of town.

The air is a special kind of fresh.
Usually, the humidity is low and there is a breeze blowing.
You know, zephyrs.
A bit of wafting without the stench.
In fact, no stench at all.
The air has been flushed.
Disinfected without chemicals.

There is destruction that comes with it.
It flushes Man’s mind.
Rids him of the delusion that we are in charge of anything.
Or it should.

 

[Bigtitsbitch1000x]

Excellent!

The pic is of Fernando Pessoa, the greatest writer of the 20th century and the father/mother of all who seek fulfillment through the creation of alternative personalities.

Let's put the Lit in Literotica!

( . )( . )

 

[Wat_Tyler]

Thank you!!!


I'm working on one about my old horse. He's been gone 9 months now. I'm going to see his #1 buddy this weekend.

 

[Wat_Tyler]

Write



Write!!!

Write, you dumbass, write!!!

Write like your sanity depends on it,
Because it does.
If you have it to spill and you don’t write,
Then you are all kinds of a pussy.
And as we all know,
Jesus hates a pussy!

“Writer’s Block!
I have Writer’s Block!”
No. No, you don’t.
You’re a pussy.
Jesus hates your miserable guts
Because you’re loathsome scum.
A useless piece of flotsam
Floating in the cesspool of life.
You need to hurry up and finish drowning.

Blocked?
You’re not blocked.
You suffer from the delusion that every word
Springing from your pussy-soft fingertips
Has . . . to . . . be . . . perfect!!!
It doesn’t.
It has to be . . . a word.
It has to be yours.
It has to be on the page.
Virtual,
paper,
the back of the water bill envelope,
a scrap of asswipe that stuck to your shoe
And followed you out of the potty.
Hell, lipstick on a fucking wall.
Just write the fucking thing down already
And quit whining!

Pussy!!!

Fuck, it’s not like you’re Shakespeare.
There has been one and you ain’t he.

You can edit out the suckage later.
Or your editor can read it,
Tell you that at least you wrote it down, Pussy,
But that you need to suck out the suckage.
Tough it out and do it.

Words on a page.
Put them there.
Tell a story,
Say what you think,
Allah willing that you actually think.

I read a story that some guy wrote.
He was trying to cure his Writer’s Block.
So he wrote some tripe.
Or was it drivel???
No matter.
He needed a trip back to grammar school,
to learn All About Homonyms.
You gotta be shittin’ me.
He should have been whacked in the head with a block.
Wood?
Concrete.

Suck out the suckage
Before hitting “enter.”
But write!!!

 

[Wat_Tyler]

June 16


It’s your birthday coming soon.
Did you think I’d forget it?
I remember the date I met you,
And the name I mistook for yours.
Gwen.

You weren’t Gwen.
I’ll wager that you still aren’t.

Hard to believe it’s been 25 years….

I know. I broke us.
And there was an us to break.
We did really well for a couple of years.
The future looked futuristic.
And I broke that, my fuck-up.
I didn’t mean to do it, but it was done.
And we should have left it as done.
In the bleak midwinter….

But no, there was a thaw. And Spring, and Hope.
And Hurt Feelings unreconciled.
Perhaps because we didn’t own them.
Perhaps we could not see them.
Or perhaps we did and didn’t want to.
Or that we denied their presence.
Perhaps because we didn’t know how
to accept. And to forgive.
I’m not sure I forgive well,
But I do know how to accept.
Rather, I have learned how to accept.

It doesn’t require my approval,
And I certainly don’t have to like it.

Back and forth.
I’d get angry and leave,
Then melancholy and call.
Sometimes, you’d call.
You’d let me back, and I allowed you to return.
I never was sure why.
Maybe it was love.
More likely, it was familiarity.
Regardless.
Then you - you - put me out for good.

I had promised not to quit on you anymore.
I had meant it.
But I suppose that you had had enough.
I hurt.
It hurt.
It hurt me.
You hurt me.
I allowed what I thought was you to hurt me.
For years, I allowed it.

For years, I marked the date.
August 19.
Years later, I had a silly twat walk out on me,
On the same day. Your day.
I said, dumb twat doesn’t even get her own day.
Hurts me like a rookie.
Easily forgotten.

It carried on for years.
Your memory,
And then a stab.
Until the day that I realized
That you just aren’t a very nice person.

I had already seen that truth about myself.

Not sure which I remember.
Do I remember you?
Do I remember the pain?
Or do I just recall that I don’t hurt anymore.

At least there was an Us to break.
I wonder what would have happened if you had been Gwen.

 

[Angeline]

June 16


It’s your birthday coming soon.
Did you think I’d forget it?
I remember the date I met you,
And the name I mistook for yours.
Gwen.

You weren’t Gwen.
I’ll wager that you still aren’t.

Hard to believe it’s been 25 years….

I know. I broke us.
And there was an us to break.
We did really well for a couple of years.
The future looked futuristic.
And I broke that, my fuck-up.
I didn’t mean to do it, but it was done.
And we should have left it as done.
In the bleak midwinter….

But no, there was a thaw. And Spring, and Hope.
And Hurt Feelings unreconciled.
Perhaps because we didn’t own them.
Perhaps we could not see them.
Or perhaps we did and didn’t want to.
Or that we denied their presence.
Perhaps because we didn’t know how
to accept. And to forgive.
I’m not sure I forgive well,
But I do know how to accept.
Rather, I have learned how to accept.

It doesn’t require my approval,
And I certainly don’t have to like it.

Back and forth.
I’d get angry and leave,
Then melancholy and call.
Sometimes, you’d call.
You’d let me back, and I allowed you to return.
I never was sure why.
Maybe it was love.
More likely, it was familiarity.
Regardless.
Then you - you - put me out for good.

I had promised not to quit on you anymore.
I had meant it.
But I suppose that you had had enough.
I hurt.
It hurt.
It hurt me.
You hurt me.
I allowed what I thought was you to hurt me.
For years, I allowed it.

For years, I marked the date.
August 19.
Years later, I had a silly twat walk out on me,
On the same day. Your day.
I said, dumb twat doesn’t even get her own day.
Hurts me like a rookie.
Easily forgotten.

It carried on for years.
Your memory,
And then a stab.
Until the day that I realized
That you just aren’t a very nice person.

I had already seen that truth about myself.

Not sure which I remember.
Do I remember you?
Do I remember the pain?
Or do I just recall that I don’t hurt anymore.

At least there was an Us to break.
I wonder what would have happened if you had been Gwen.

This is raw, powerful writing. Really strong, really good.

 

[Bigtitsbitch1000x]

June 16


It’s your birthday coming soon.
Did you think I’d forget it?
I remember the date I met you,
And the name I mistook for yours.
Gwen.

You weren’t Gwen.
I’ll wager that you still aren’t.

Hard to believe it’s been 25 years….

I know. I broke us.
And there was an us to break.
We did really well for a couple of years.
The future looked futuristic.
And I broke that, my fuck-up.
I didn’t mean to do it, but it was done.
And we should have left it as done.
In the bleak midwinter….

But no, there was a thaw. And Spring, and Hope.
And Hurt Feelings unreconciled.
Perhaps because we didn’t own them.
Perhaps we could not see them.
Or perhaps we did and didn’t want to.
Or that we denied their presence.
Perhaps because we didn’t know how
to accept. And to forgive.
I’m not sure I forgive well,
But I do know how to accept.
Rather, I have learned how to accept.

It doesn’t require my approval,
And I certainly don’t have to like it.

Back and forth.
I’d get angry and leave,
Then melancholy and call.
Sometimes, you’d call.
You’d let me back, and I allowed you to return.
I never was sure why.
Maybe it was love.
More likely, it was familiarity.
Regardless.
Then you - you - put me out for good.

I had promised not to quit on you anymore.
I had meant it.
But I suppose that you had had enough.
I hurt.
It hurt.
It hurt me.
You hurt me.
I allowed what I thought was you to hurt me.
For years, I allowed it.

For years, I marked the date.
August 19.
Years later, I had a silly twat walk out on me,
On the same day. Your day.
I said, dumb twat doesn’t even get her own day.
Hurts me like a rookie.
Easily forgotten.

It carried on for years.
Your memory,
And then a stab.
Until the day that I realized
That you just aren’t a very nice person.

I had already seen that truth about myself.

Not sure which I remember.
Do I remember you?
Do I remember the pain?
Or do I just recall that I don’t hurt anymore.

At least there was an Us to break.
I wonder what would have happened if you had been Gwen.

This is excellent. I would publish it in a major magazine. Of course, as per the Rory KGB, this means I also approve of how you cut your toenails and whether you prefer mustard on turkey sandwiches.

Really, quite good. Chomsky would agree. So would Moe The Zun.

( . )( . )

 

[Wat_Tyler]

This is excellent. I would publish it in a major magazine. Of course, as per the Rory KGB, this means I also approve of how you cut your toenails and whether you prefer mustard on turkey sandwiches.

Really, quite good. Chomsky would agree. So would Moe The Zun.

( . )( . )

Thank you very much. And thank you for reading my scribblings. I had a good time with it, too. Have. I need to work on a more disciplined dedication to creating. But it feels too - structured.


I'm certain that there only person pleased with how I cut my toenails is me. My days of being a potential foot model are long past, but I did have good feet for decades. And I'm not a fan of turkey, sandwiches or otherwise. I am excellent at cleaning the bathroom and getting dust out of corners.

 

[Wat_Tyler]

This is raw, powerful writing. Really strong, really good.

Thank you very much!!! For what I can see here, coming from you, that means something.