dead-cat-cancer

Shit a shit that smells of dead cat.

The mysterious left side head neck throat ear tooth ache persists.

Hot bath and a Tylenol make sleep possible.

In the morning lunge twists. Sauna perhaps.

Frantz Kafka died at forty-two. Of what? In nineteen twenty four.

Ponder how the family would pay the bills.

Pondering fasting ‘till near death to outlive the cancer.

Now Charlie’s down in Mexico with the healers, Joni sings.

Tomorrow Dr Hilliary White will finally weigh in, perhaps prescribing imaging.

Marriages all around are a fucking mess.

All these men have the same old complaints. She doesn’t want me. I feel worthless.

She’s feeling the same fucking way man.

Moment moment moment moment.

I have two manual wind watches that tick. Old cheap swiss watches with obscure names on them.

Lovely.

Much love and appreciation friends.

29/01/2025