Some days I only manage to write about how much I hate writing. Seems like there was a time I liked it, but it may have been a dream. Now you’ll see why I generally only let the dog write poetry:
Fuck that
which froze the rime pretty on the vine
stole Sundays
summoned ghosts
and plundered fair sleep.
Fuck that
which left the children lack
did slipshod the moneyjob
and inflated my dreams beyond all proportion.
Fuck that.
I will not write.
So there
k. Rawson 
I like it a lot.
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I love Emily’s poetry.
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You should read the limericks by my cat.
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Fncking A right girl!
So there
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