The Bold and the Bilious (this is not)

With a Vanilla Milk Stout and the same blanketing blankness that has come to dominate my autumn days, I sit myself down and prepare to lose another staring match to the wide un-blinking eye of yet another empty, open page. Amazingly enough, I manage to hammer out two full lengths of complaints and confessions: asinine yes, but none-the-less gratifying knowing now as I do that no words could be worse than the absence that’s become of them.
Pressing so hard that it hurts my arm to compensate for the lack of their impact, I take pleasure in the dismal act of describing the nauseating task that I find in trying to write them; trying to remember how I once believed it could lead elsewhere.
When I finally get sick of looking at my own slick vomit on the page, I go in search of a place to one day place my fabled poems, another act of faith, another game of make believe — only by now I’ve really starting getting into the role, going so far as to get genuinely upset when I discover that SoftSkull no longer accepts submissions of chapbook manuscripts, not even the pretend kind, nor the kind with just a title and a frame with fresh stretched canvas.
Despite the underwhelming feel of futility in the event that is this Monday evening, I have to admit I sense a suffocating spark somewhere deep within my pudgy gut; a fragile thing at best, but still present, not dead, at least not yet…. Goddamnit.