Oh Mondseer: the muck cob brie muenster saga...,


crafted when Wallace and Gromit
returned from their trip to the moon,
which I can prov-olone huck curd
(within Trump con feta ration) –
as cheesy poem crafted whey back
when the following Gouda eye idea
occurred while milking the cows.

Yea of course writing ideas unstoppably

burst asunder at the most inconvenient

opportunities such as driving Miss Daisy,

taking a shower, or using the bathroom.

Accursed ambition becoming a prolific

wordsmith (case in point Stephen King)

Woolworth riding, oddly lumbering

lackadaisical shoehorning out this

being from a self made gully. The jury

yet to decree if attempting to extricate


muss elf from tangled web of decades

old setbacks via literary output successful.

Every morning, noon and night, this chap

blunders, flounders, (like a phish out of water),

yet plod his shipshape reclusive quiet-natured

person along the boulevard of broken dreams.

Oft times, huff hind aye muss elf entering The

Dead Zone (bordering a Pet Sematary). Earlier,

a previous saunter found me surmounting

The Green Mile. Attendant in regard to these


Bag Of Bones, and Desperation to acquire

telephone contact with Cell phone quickens

pace despite Insomnia. No matter unexpected

Sleeping Beauties warrant kisses, my determination,

motivation, and slight trepidation occasionally breeds

(The Dark Half), doomsday facet deftly jackknifing lust.

Occasionally, a feeble goading simply under minds

any corporeal aim to restore endeavor to experience

Joyland. IT (creative juices within) spur meeting Rose

Red and her restorative powers. Onward atheistic


soldier goes this chap. No matter tipping point (vis

a vis hungry fatigued body clamors for Needful Things.

Revival (for food and sleep) frequently appears grim.

Downcast state of body, mind and spirit reinforced

by mirage. The Dark Tower looms ahead! Adjacent

to ominous evil looking structure silhouette casted

of a Black House. The initial ambition to ward off

abysmal results summon forth creative literary juices.

Simultaneously a migraine headache pounding pitted
courtesy spluttering, nauseating, and foaming LIX spittle.

They hammer horrifically, ferociously, and diabolically.


Shades of shad rock Under The Dome. Ma noggin

Aches like The Tommyknockers! Every attempt to locate

a royal crowning coeval counterpart jinxed with laborious

ill luck. Hell in a handbasket plight usually generates

nostalgia for destiny to Carrie be back to Old Virginny.

Sage advice from Christine, Delores Claiborne, or The

Colorado Kid, yours truly blithely heeded. As a result

(The Outsider within this paperback writer wannabe)

sports defeat written all over face. Concomitant figurative

futility gussies and kickstarts leaving invisible pockmarks.


Ordinary Dreamcatcher fate invariably finds aptly named

Writer Errs Block. Need to back track arises (figuratively)

along vista. The roads have no name. They command

stubborn respect. Near impossible mission manifested

To transcend mental hindrance. This more difficult than

playing Gerald's Game. Hence sigh embrace The Shining

opportunity to avoid Misery. Doctor Sleep would undoubtedly

encourage braving, challenging self confronting The Eyes

Of The Dragon. Such a risky pursuit could force facing pitbull

Cujo. No matter gamble foisted prospect fraught frightfully


being burned at the stake by a Firestarter. Voluntary action

brings small hairs to tingle. Hunchback, sans severely curved

spine straightens. This (The Stand) ding pose offered supreme

vision as promised by The Talisman. Tidbits by me alias

Mr. Mercedes carefully just in case The Girl Who Loved

Tom Gordon chanced to stumble upon this redoubt versus

her hours spent staring at a blinking cursor. Metaphorical

po' wet tick feet took me where they would into the Shining
and happy place called Willoughby located within the outer

limits of the twilight zone.

  • Author: rew4er2nail (Offline Offline)
  • Published: May 14th, 2024 14:10
  • Category: Humor
  • Views: 1
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