Oh Prententia! My stream of consciousness moves with eyes of a lake, across the shaggy carpet of elder bug madness on the outside walls of mind, sunning against the long winter.
Squish! An M&M! The sallow coffee poop of midmorning angst decries the vile hypocrisy of madness extreme. Is this not the workday?
Dare I type? Who am I? He who dares type. He who knows that to type is to die, yet who dares type on, AM I!
Or not?
(Take it)
“Take it”? Take it where? 
:smack:
Don’t bogart it, dude!
Thou Cockleshell unbleleivers of pure prosaic thought, begone from the thread I weave, type thy stream of consciousness or leave. Cockles and muscles alive alive Oh. I appeal not to you men, I desire a ho.
You are the diet coke of life.
And as the clock, cold and mechanical, continues its rythmic and relentless march towards five,
i sit and contemplate.
Before mine eye the ruby hand of time shudders slowly round the numbered face and each movement - though only a second in length - seems to me to take an eternity.
For it seems that one single shift of that fateful hand could encompass hours sufficient for Rome to rise and fall, for kings to claim their kingdoms and lose them in flames or for love to grow strong then whither and die.
Time passes.
Eternity after Eternity after Eternity.
TIC, TOC, TIC, TOC, TIC TOC.
Hope now grows in my heart, but not the hope of a young man - looking forward with baited breath to a future where the grass will surely be greener.
No.
Mine is the hope of the old, of the lost, of the dying.
For i hope only for an end.
And my end will come at five.
Who will correct the racial inequities if you make a mistake with white out? Shake well before use baby! (shake well baby) Twist and shout! (twist and shout) C’mon c’mon Baby! (c’mon baby) wipe the white out. And yet if you write again before it is dry it is worse than before.
Quoth the stapler.
“Nevermore.”
Dust bunnies
Behind the monitor
Skulking
Waiting
To dust or not to dust
Not
Not
Not.
Tick and tock
Tock and tick
Oh for an orifice in which I could stick
This finger of mine, so frail and petite
If only my boogers
Tasted as sweet
Life is but a train ride - and i am the passenger who has no ticket.
Tis why i fear those who would inspect me…
Aching of arm, mine fingers in cramps
The mouse is my friend, yet it bites
It bites
When keys are not clicking, when keyboard is silent
When coffee mug sits, no longer inviting
The warmth
As it has grown cold
Grown cold
The wrist it is mindful
Of all time its in use
It cries out in pinching reminders
Abuse
For on the mouse my hand sits
Disabled it becomes
Wrenching more day by day
As my friend the mouse bites
It bites.
Pinching and squinching
And sowing his oats
The trolling Ken doll glares and he gloats:
“Oh I have had many, oh many have I had…
Only moving thing not bedded might be your Dad.
But then again, Bernie…
That name sounds familiar.
Wait a minute. Bernie Devillier?
We met once in Rio
He was a nice chap
I let him twiddle my toes while I took a short nap.”
I wish I could contribute but I left my stream of consciousness in the pub urinal.
Your mother arglebargles in my closet like a Huegenin’s Juggernaut, reminds me of tight white panties on the Nostromo.
Sigourney Weaver, still pretty she is. Now backwards talking, like Yoda.
Your mom again. Heh.
“Heh and double heh.”
Said the Ryder to the chai
“I’d rather have my caffeine
in a needle in my thigh.
If you see me coming down the street
Just look the other way
Because meat is cheap, retains the heat
And makes me feel okay.”
perma-smile, permafrost
a drab beige tape dispenser
a smile frozen in place compulsory figure
(“Owww!”, says PeeWee)
viewing the swirling leaves through the frames
from slightly different angles of 9-ball
we office drones smoking cigar jackets
we petrified bones of ice-crystal marble
all see as one copper-skinned Cyclops
and unhinge squeak squeak squeak
the wise one grabs
the shredder bin
I peg him with hi-liters
once again jejeune ennui sets in
There was a young girl
From Nantucket…
Another one is leaving. I had to kick in $3 for a gift. I don’t mind contributing, but I hate being told how much, and I only had $4 left in my wallet. Whatever.
No one wants to be here any more. Neither do I. Time to win the lottery, I think.
push pins
push pins
push pins
Here I sit, brokenhearted…
Well, no, that won’t quite work, will it.
How about some haiku?
Stupid project hell
There is no escape for me
Management is dumb.
Squirrely, squirrely are you a girly?
If you’re a boy I’ll buy you dinner.
If we are same call me a sinner
You make me feel all twirly inside
Like when I was a kid and spun around
So much I fell upon the ground
And gazed upon the endless sky
Where what when how who and why