Desperate Angels (of the Fog)

Let’s be honest. Words are dangerous things. As a full disclaimer, I am trying to get into your skull, into the very seat of control, your holy of holy, your innermost sense of self. It is a scary, and dangerous proposition. Lord knows -as I know myself pretty well- I would never let my thoughts into my own head, if I had the choice! So why in the world would you deign to give these would be parasitic ideas any further egress into your being? Stop please at the blurb! If not, who knows, we might have stock market analysts quitting their jobs and joining a Morris Dancing Troop, or some in the sadly-coiffured Red Hat Brigade might go so far as to admit they are kind of deep-down frightened and might actually be gay. I myself was once on a fast-track to being an Ambassador until my heart got in the way. OK that was a bit of an exaggeration. But anyway, please be forewarned. I am an inveterate liar, and fabulist, which is why I have tried to just be candid to the point of actually showing my very ugly butt. And the destructive power of these poems if allowed entry into your soul simply can’t be predicted, but I suspect you will survive, even if subtly, inalterably, altered in someway about which of course I take absolutely no responsibility. Since I am broke, and too old to be homeless, please just buy the damn book and recycle it straight away. You don’t have to read it. I’m not happy with much of it either. Straight to the recycle bin would be best for the planet, best for my self-esteem and best for that erstwhile sense of smug self we all desperately need to fake in order to survive this red-blooded, All-American oileo-oli-patri-malarchy.