the world despises those who love to play

warning: the reader is about to read a post that is baldly self-indulgent, but the ultimate aim is application that extends beyond this bubbly world

So here we go again. Getting on the old merry treadmill.
Climbing into the merry hamster wheel.
Keep forgetting that’s what it is, a merry hamster wheel.
It is never presented for what it is.
Always dressed as something they know I can’t help
but give a distracted look to and ease the feet
so to step closer: steps that indicate they will lead
the stepper into a grand bedroom
where scanty-clad, naughty-scented, young ladies
lounge wherever the eye turns and I get to believe
that my destiny is now rid of dilemma
about what to do with  this life,
how I can best serve humanity;
oh but it is not and never was a grand bedroom
full of lounging young ladies clad scantily

and scented naughtily; it was just another
merry hamster wheel – or the same old merry hamster wheel.
So destiny has another idea.
But it never hands over an answer. I try to inquire.
Understand the deal. Well okay,
I am not destined to spend this life surrounded by
scantily-clad, naughtily-scented young ladies
lounging in bedrooms, serving or being served,
as a slave or a slaver, or alternating month to month
who serves who or who is the slave or slaves or slaver or slavers.
What is the next best destiny? I think that’s fair.
If I can’t be a man trapped in a grand bedroom
full of scanty-clad, naughty-scented young ladies
or have a bunch of scanty-clad, naughty-scented young ladies
trapped in my bedroom or estate (if I had an estate which I don’t),

which would be my top wish if I could wish for any destiny,
then I should get to wish for the next best destiny.
But there are so many that attract.
I’ve developed an enjoyment for the composing
of poetry. But I’ve also lately got hold
of a guitar which I’ve not played in some years
and it’s been glorious (though painful) getting back into that.
Then there’s the good old standby of fiction,
of which a second-best destiny might be to write fictions
which feature a gentleman trapped in a house or an estate
full of young women scantily-clad and naughtily-scented,
or a gentleman whose house is the home
to a bunch of young ladies dressed scanty and scented naughty.
Well I tried writing stories but I have trouble with them,
because I like to let the words wander off course.

Then when they wander off course – well it’s fun for me
but it often runs into a river
that has no fish but only nonsense
or fishes who swim nonsensically;
which is the absolute worst way to write a tale
wherein the hope is to feature young ladies
becoming even less clad and where the naughty scents
become more than scents. So what I like to do is play.
By play I mean I habitually skirt or try to skirt
whatever appears to have meaning.
Especially a deep or important meaning.
Deep or important meanings are too closely
related to work. But our world rewards the workers.
And punishes the players.
Fucking sucks but that’s how it is.

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About Timmy the Scribbler

Love to write all kinds of stuff I love writing so many different kinds of stuff it is a constant struggle to narrow the focus to a manageable handful and let the others go. But a few years ago I dipped my fingers into a poetry pie and of all my uncertainties, one thing that is no uncertainty is that it is one passion that must remain, so maybe that's the one. I do dearly delight in chopping up fictional works into stanzas and syllables.
This entry was posted in culture, doubt, no idea, poetry, ramble, rambly, the way I feel about it, thoughts, travails, women, writing and tagged , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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