A censored stream of consciousness

The slothful beast rises late afternoon, ostentatious and obese; sizzling bacon topless, whistling between his teeth, an awful hissing noise that fills the house with douche. I stare emptily at a computer screen, begging my fingers to miraculously type out eight pages of literary criticism on Flaubert's Parrot. My ambition is limited to aging this evening, many evenings. Bad noise permeates drywall and my ears droop. Internally I am as complex as embryology, externally I am as simple as a goose flying north for the summer. Simile is seen as inferior to metaphor, but I ask you: are "as" and "like" really our enemies (or at least our lesser friends)? Is the phonetic of simile unforgivable? Nonsense. Simile is a horse! Forgive my attempt at recycled cleverness.

The computer screen remains white. Should I turn aside the literary criticism and open the latest product on my mental shelf: literary dreamism. No; not now. I cannot dream myself dying of plague under the supervision of Camus now. I imagine that black bubbles on my scalp, blown through the devil's wand, are a tad too distracting.

I peek at my circus calender: human salamanders blow fire upwards, either a nihilistic attempt to burn down the heavens and shower in the ashes of truth, or entertain the underbelly of humanity. A poetry reading is scheduled for Thursday. I have never thought Thursday particularly poetic. Patrick Friesen disagrees.

The cursor blinks at me repeatedly, like a confused child, awaiting an answer that refuses to reveal itself.