anything is a warm envelop
moistened with spit tongue lisping
a germing idea, unwhole
isn’t unwelcomed, over and again
the lisp rasp and gasp
for a rubicund frontispiece,
wax rosy intaglio hell.
usher the sweet hellos,
’solong the paper switch twisting
the spit, spit on the blue-glow
deads, spit on the fecund stench.
the lines run and run to
nothing must have an end. if
beginning starts from a warm
brown envelop, moist sourly
these yeasty ideas, scamper the wits
welcoming hell(o); concentric blanks.
——————————————
Lessee. In the week that I’d be away, there’s a campaign to rush. Tentatively, 3 concepts and 9 executions. To be presented on the day I get back to work. And that’s just one out of two accounts, mind you. Plus certain matters of personal enrichment. Woo and hoo. And I’ve a number of ads (and lines) I’ve gotta write before Wednesday. Translation? A mad, mad rush to finish everything I possibly can. I’m stressed. And I’m tired. And everything I conjure, I raze it to ash.
A little TLC (nevermind the modes of expression) this very moment would be nice. Real nice.
