Love treating this writing lark like a blood sport, a kind of archery, debauch, but Nie is not a poacher, his art is only harmful to those that want to soften up a poster child for his wild and uncouth ways. But who is affected by trashy jokes? Especially when you're killing me through your passive smoking. I'm more offended by your flashy motor, blasting its foul and gassy odours. Polluted water, littered banks attracting savage rodents. The sewage stench we have to hold our noses, yet pretend the world around us smells of roses. The gross misconduct of Thoth misconduct? It would be a boring world with no misconduct. We'd be so despondent. I wonder if we would even want this world, a sombre mood, you'd need vodka, a lot of booze just to block the truth. That's why sometimes shock is 90% Proof we are even alive. Other times we accidentally knock the snooze button. Sometimes a small dose of reality is nice to do. Why hide behind the bruises? When you can fight with the rod of caduceus. Capeesh motherfucker! Time to unleash a new form of Engleesh just outside the reach of hate speech. I hate speech that's restricted, misconstrued or twisted, by these impotent twits and twats, with no wit, intellect or sense of humour. No sense of what it is to be human. So I have to vaccinate them with my Solution. Before sending them on their merry way, a new and big improvement. No longer hurt by words and phrases, they learn to stop taking these blurbs so personally, without being fazed, in fact they learn to praise it. Wouldn't that day be so amazing? When we all agree to live and let live, instead of having a limp dick mentality. Fed up of this allergy to offence. Do we really need to put up these brick walls and fences to protect the defenceless? Life in the Slow Lois. How Nietz could one stoop? Just to share these silly little scoops of news, but not coops and military troops. Nietz here to skirt on the fringes of carefree, while others are scared to be themselves and have to think carefully before they flirt with danger. I'll flow with flair and throw these words like solar flares... tease, goad, bite, snare. Your worst nightmare. I am a literal ton of funnel webs having fun burrowing into your skull. There's never a dull moment when I pull open your fallopian tubes and eat the ovaries. Its a joke! "At least we hope it is..." Life is about waiting until you're hitting peaks, before you speak out and reach the masses, and they get their asses out onto the streets and ask questions, unafraid of who will harass and arrest them. Stood amazed, gasps of awe and pride, that bloody day has arrived where no blood had to be shed to turn the tide of injustice. Collectively we are the nuke, the button they are afraid to push, incase they enrage this radium storm ready to burn this stadium to dust. We must have a death wish, when pleas fall on deaf ears and we get so desperate, nudge the self-destruct until the rest just follow. Feels like I'm lying on the edge of reason, and if not then I'm just lying, on a ledge, waiting for the cracks to appear. Can't relax in this parallax universe. I lack the words to describe how I feel, as inside this mind I feel trapped, like anything I had that was real has been hacked into. And I have nothing to back me up, but I hope it may return again in due course, instead of me having to respew horseshit. Colloquial forced shit. Is it time to forfeit and climb out of this forklift truck? Shut the fort and pull up the drawbridge so there is no bridge to draw visitors to your page. Shut up shop with a sign in the window that says STOPPED DUE TO POOR TASTE. The sewer waste left them po-faced. You'd be doing us all a favour if you bowed out gracefully. Just be grateful for the time we had and the life we led, half of it without you Dad, there isn't a night that I don't feel a slight tinge of sadness at what could have been. But got to concentrate on what we're gonna be. Every man has a dream, no matter how distant it may seem. I still see the gleam of light enticing me into its brightness. Nothing will intervene, I'm Dog willing to not stop and go to whatever extreme to make the grade and join the list of literary greats, but remain humble and considerably grateful, for I am just a mere grain in the galaxy. No fear, no pain no gain, just galloping. Non-stop. No malice even when my feet are full of calluses. Refuse to ride in carriages, its pride and self-determination that can carry me. I will fight for my right to write until I'm placed in my carrycot. Go out with a Bang like Barry Scott. A happy job instead of being trapped in this crappy rot, where only suicide could cap it off. But now the the cap is on, and the latch is loose, let us see what hatches, let us see what you produce... other than seeds of semen juice. Now that I've found out what I'm really here to do.