The exertions of an early start, fleeting thoughts echo around my hollow head. The news. The emails. The social media. All checked. And checked again. For I am the king of procrastination and I wear my crown wearily. My domains are my domain. It's a kingdom of isolation. Indeed, the outside the world is frozen as I type. Hence the plagiarised line. :o)
So what brings me to blog on this here wintry day? Well, to avoid work of course. House work, health work (gym), my work (my domains), real work. No other reason, because the only other reason is vanity. And I don't do vain. At least, I don't think I do, but what do I know? Precisely.
Whilst I'm here I may as well poison your minds. Afterall, isn't that what kings and leaders have done for millennia? Not that I lead. But I don't follow either.
So, that poison. It's a poison of the soul, and poison can be good for what ails you. For you dear reader are quite probably sick. We all are. It's part of the human condition. We seek things that will make us feel better; Quick fixes that fade and leave a scar like butterfly stitching. We're here so fleetingly that we must grab stuff that makes us feel really better about ourselves for just that bit longer. Music is one of the few poisons that work for real.
So, the dispensary offers you a healthy dose of tunerificary (yep, I made that word up. It's not latin for terrific tune, but that's what it means. Or not. Call the police).
I force this perspective upon you. Maybe it fuses to your guts' inner lining. Imagine the rain, an inner city slum of desperation, hate, love, fear, hopeful hopelessness. An undercurrent eddies beneath the skin. Oppression, suppression, class, race, religion. Friction, fact. Forget all that, and close your eyes. Taste this. Feet it. Underappreciated, not forgotten. And still here.
"Up the Empire/Balls to the Bulldog Breed" - by King of the Slums, from the album "Dandelions".
The King of Procrastination retires to his jail of thoughts once more.
