A COCKWORK VAGINA
I thought then that I was but I realize now that I am.
I am looking northwest over the shore-cliffs of the Pacific Ocean as my brains are blowing southwest out the side of my head all over Richard Brautigan’s cold campsite.
I am impressed by this .44 Remington Magnum.
Smatterings of my thoughts express in a mist my place in history: I am now Fly Fishing in America for months before you find my body.
Messy, isn’t it, my friend? How did I end up all over this place alone?
My scattered thoughts recall that it had something to do with ballistic penises and corkscrew vaginas; something about sexual conflict between Donald Duck and Daisy Duck; something about horrific spiky penises damaging the female for rival males.
Or maybe not.
You were always waiting for me to grow up. I am a willful naïf, cultivating childishness. A gentle, troubled, deeply odd guy dismissed and abandoned. The baby thrown out with the bathwater.
I have been a sesquipedalian polysyllabic homage collage of thoughts upon feelings about an impression of words and fate. I thought that I was Jack Kerouac but I know now that I am Richard Brautigan.
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But, the most ancient scrolls are kept on: THE TABLE OF MALCONTENTS