bichoose (bichoose) wrote,

Sunday 6th February 2010.

 Good Morning i say to myself, i see the blank screen is already here before me. The albatross of the scribble world in all its glory shines even whiter on this Trinity Sunday, perhaps because this is the second best day of the week the horse and cart of the protestant work ethic, so embedded after thirty-seven years of work is resting for a short while,during my waking hours.Not so when the demons crawl down my crazy streets plotted inside my mind, the same type of dream has become my requiem a built in tapestry repeating along the same lines centred around the words " Lost Fear of Lost "....last nights was rapturous as ever thankfully the pink ribboned hobnailed booted gargoyles living within usually have swept all such vision away by lunch time how ever much i try to recall only distant threads can be glimpsed,perhaps this is wise from my old friends as most probably i would end up in some dark room quivering in the corner.
It would be nice to dream of big cocks big breasts or simple sailing ships rather than the repeat button being constantly on,however today is my own personal Trinity Sunday and all such dreams will sail away,i can feel my hobnailed pink ribbons brushing away whilst i sit here playing with words.
If there can be a nice melancholy then i am in the curly leaf wood nymph,the more winter creeps away the urge to masturbate in wild abandon grows,on my travels this past week on some dirt track i spotted perfectly formed stinging nettles,so baby so tiny it was quite a shock to see them clung hugging the ground,i was in awe i stopped lingered for a short while until the ticking clock spoke louder than the urge to masturbate in pain. Nettles as a child were plants to avoid once stung the race for the old dock leaf rubbed to try and ease the sting which burnt as fire in the mind more than the pain on the skin.
Old age has now drawn erotic drifts, the stinging plant stings past spring in to summers bizarre ravishing rebellious movement away from the bah of sheep. The old tart is beginning to smell spring summer also she is banging in my mind the few things i bought over winter she knows about and is not contented to see them simply in their brown envelopes, "never mind nettles dress me you old fool "...arrhh i sigh it will be done patience my old tart, the swallowing of seed in early January has perhaps worn off typical slut now wants more. There is no rest for the wicked perhaps so.

  • Thursday 12th May 2022.

    I think i need to poke my head out of the front door smell the coffee, hold my hand out to feel as if it is raining them pull on my busted stockings…

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    Today i have started my second week without a reminder to pull on my blue uniform...i do not miss it..or am i lying to myself, perhaps... i do not…

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