Wordsmoker

Dear Wordsmoker

You may have noticed that it’s been quiet around here for the past few days.

You may have wondered why.

I shall honor your question by proclaiming that you should not be alarmed, for this is only the eternal ebb and flow of Wordsmoker.

Pray not in fear, for I always hear your questions.
Sometimes – at night – I hear you reply from the plughole in my kitchen sink. You whisper of ill-things and unparrelled horror.
I put on Radio 4 to cover your voice.

Popular? Hell, we all know Wordsmoker’s sometimes popular. Sometimes, it gets read. Sometimes, people write. On Wordsmoker. Exciting things. Pleasurable things. Incisive things.

Things that probe the limits of human conscienceness.
Things sometimes as incisive and pleasurable and
as exciteable as a demon monster’s tentacle.

And sometimes – Wordsmoker – hell, it lies dormant. Asleep.

Sleeping like a demon monster,
who lies exhausted from all the fucking.

That’s Wordsmoker.

Tentacled Demon Monster.

Yes – our Eternal Winter is always coming, dear Wordsmoker, but it’s Spring at the moment so I’ve been hacking away at things related to Wordsmoker

quiet, like a mouse with a keyboard,
an actual fucking mouse, bitch -
and I’m in the server with my mouse hands, fixing stuff
and making things italic for no real reason.

So – dear Wordsmoker – I beg of you patience, my tiny lap dancer -

do not rub your rocket tits in my face just yet,
as I’ll be hacking away here until maybe Sunday

because in real life
I’m getting an Awesome Business Plan together
and I’m doing a lot of that with my penis
waking, sober hours.

I’m also drinking a collosal amount of tea, and Henry says hi.

GUN DOGS