free as a bert

lone and dry.
like to kill my mocking AI flies.
whatever happened to the ‘touch’ ?
always made me feel so free

as a puppet on strings.

puppet. made of wool. some wood perhaps,
even has some wings ‘n’ things
even has an aileron.

osama bin laden
equated with me, when we all know
i wanted it to be ernie, all the time.

well i’m free as a bird. now.
i like the way i can say certain things,
then just turn on my own words …

what a bastard! they decry.

what a total bastard that guy
and he’s not even dead yet.
deathwish cannot be granted.
‘not good enough to expire still,
you have years left to bore them with.’

life …^. is like a pair of dice.
you get to throw once or twice
depending on the scene.
then you gotta come clean …

preferably with a sanitary wipe.

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About runningvein
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"My pieces comprise, entirely, works of fiction. Some pieces are shorts, others tend to get a little longer. Some are straightforward and may be read evenly, while others can tend to be amorphous. You see, sometimes the writer does his piece completely lucid, sitting straight up and staring intently into it as his fingers simply glide across the keys. Other times his eyes are opaque with tears from imaginary emotions. Sentences, nay, words, barely come out as he stabs at each letter with one trembling finger, like how your mom types. Then there are the times a piece of work is scrawled from a leaking pen on a notepad in a bar after several whiskeys, as the writer gleefully tries to get everything down before the bouncers come over to throw him out for laughing like a crazy person to himself all night. The writer cannot say what is good, or what is bad. He can only write. It does not do for one to rank a piece of his work above others, just as it does not do for one to deign to strive to be published. That must be left to others, to come and ask the writer if they may publish his work, and that all of the work would be copyright (c) him 2000-2009, if they were to do so. Some of the pieces may even seem far too real -- as though he's actually blogging about his real life, his personal thoughts. You know -- because it is a blog, some people may think that may be the case. Well it ain't, damn you, it ain't." The man in the tracksuit shrugged over the counter. "Thanks for the info, Hemingway," he said, "but I just wanted to know where the damn ATM is."

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