they call me Write-a-lot, Sir Write-a-lot because I do, I do, I do write a lot it seems, a humongous lot, stupid lot, lot of rot, absurd a-lot, so much so I fear for running out of words….. of course it would probably be so much better if I or was rationed as much of what I scrawl is button fluff and perhaps be more discriminating and discerning before committing brain to hand to pen to paper…..
…. see, I’m even doing it now…. a man without a map, with no direction home, without a paddle, without a harness, without a clue……… remember The Red Shoes?……… mind you it is one of the last few things I’ve managed to keep up… but for how long before it too falls by the wayside along with all those other pennies dropped, discarded, misplaced, lost…… perhaps all these pennies I keep stumbling across, pick up and pocket are others peoples habits they’ve long dropped, discarded, misplaced, lost…… a penny for your thoughts, or mine, heads or tails matters not a jot-a-lot…. perhaps I should be called Sir Write-a-lot-and-far-too-much as it’s all just babble and squeak babbled and squoke (is that a word?… it is now….)… and preferably in ink which feels more tangible than typing which merely leads to a disconnect causing all manner of trouble and strife and twittering tripe and worse still bad grammar!……..
….. luckily for now anyway writing seems to have evaded an unconscious culling process I impose on pretty much anything I do, as evidenced in the field of dropped, discarded, misplaced, lost corpses littering my rear view, the lifeless crop of gone-to-seed what-ifs and if-onlys beyond resuscitation……
© robert greig 2017