Letter Day 99: Where I been; you don’t even know

    

I Ain’t a clown killer…but I’ve killed a clown.

I didn’t plunge the knife…but I held him down.

 Truer words have never been spoken…by me, at least. Because I lie. Almost exclusively. Let us try and put that ugliness aside… in the interest of LETTER DAY! 

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Poppa AJ, Sing me a song of summertime.

Lucy Sweetmess

I don’t see why not, Miss Sweetmess.

When reading the following try and apply the tune of a lively Irish pub song.

“Weeeellllllll, I saw your dirty old mother, walking the bad side of town

She had her hand clenched up in her druthers, and her top was mostly down

I said to the lady, “dear Sadie”, I sez me, “you seem to be lost and a whore”

She said with a wink, “Dear Aj”, I think, “Give me ten dollars and I’ll lay on the floor”

Yeeeesssss, I saw your dirty old mother, and I do mean in the biblical sense

She had her hand  stuffed deep in my druthers, and the other was holding the fence”

Any more than that and my label will make me pay for distribution rights. I wasn’t so careful about singing contracts in my younger days.

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Can even Rocket Jesus know my pain. Though he quickens through the sky with the burn of thunder my umbrage grows too hollow-quick for even him to keep my pace.

 Jerome Moncrief

 I’m going to have to answer this one pictorially, Jerome.

[Caption: Jesus: Hold on Jerome, I understand.  Jerome Too slow Rocket Jesus…..Umbrage] 

 I hope my message has reached you; all of you.

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What are your Goals, in regards to Beats Entropy?

Horatio Mung

You know what: someday I would like to become famous enough that people have to study my posts as if they were legitimate academic grist. Have them breakdown down all the subtext and allusions and try to infer some sort of higher social commentary from the retarded advice, wild claims, and delusional landscape of nefarious hams and child molester humour.

 I’ll even breakdown the course list and a brief syllabus for you.

18361: Need based Linguistic construction as fuelled by caffeine

18201: Animals that torment us: Giant bee’s, Pie baking horses, Pawtucket.

16021: Kamchatka: Nation on the brink

16018: Esoteric ranking with non-quantifiable measure

12276: Profanity vs absurdity: Creating the illusion of content

17321: King of all elves and your balls:  The social repercussions of advanced dirty talk.

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What happens to stories that you just abandon. Does the characters wander around in limbo assembling piecemeal adventures from the remainders of ideation you bestowed upon them? Are they frozen in state of slow decay; the vitality that once fuelled them bleeding out with each passing day? I need to know Mr. Beats Entropy. Please tell me.

Hugo balzac,

The gutter

I’ve actually been somewhat haunted by this idea—mind I also became wracked with guilt if I only left one toy on my bedroom floor (leaving it to suffer the stigma and isolation of spending a night alone). There are a couple continuing series that have ground to halt due to my writing myself into a corner. The big downside of publishing as I go is this inability to rewrite my back story; creating these awkward narrative pauses where characters mill about in my head waiting for some sort of resolution.

 The problem is the role momentum plays in story telling, and how difficult it is to recapture that momentum (and revive context) once it’s gone inert. This week I’m going to snip/gather a few dangling plot threads (in my office series and The most dangerous man in the world), to try and bring a closure to the work.