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Reading Poetry | i hate pajamas
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i hate pajamas

really hate pajamas
and folks who say they wear them
what are they really saying?
that their brains have been conditioned?

who the fuck wears pajamas?
plus drinks hot cinnamon coffee
in those warm cotton

gonna make a videogame
about just shooting pajamas.
you get ten points for a fringe
twenty if you blow that ass off.

so she’s lying in the snow,
and her ass is too cold,
this somehow being winter,
she’s in her fucking pajamas.

muammar quaddafi
was wearing pajamas
osama oh, osama was
he was wearing pajamas

when I came in, so precise
hoping for a little sugar and spice
she was in the bed and asleep
cosy in her little pajama piece.

& I wish there was no such thing
& I wish there was no such thing as
& I wish no such pajamas existed in the pink.

"My pieces comprise, entirely, works of fiction. Some pieces are shorts, others tend to get a little longer. Some are straightforward and may be read evenly, while others can tend to be amorphous. You see, sometimes the writer does his piece completely lucid, sitting straight up and staring intently into it as his fingers simply glide across the keys. Other times his eyes are opaque with tears from imaginary emotions. Sentences, nay, words, barely come out as he stabs at each letter with one trembling finger, like how your mom types. Then there are the times a piece of work is scrawled from a leaking pen on a notepad in a bar after several whiskeys, as the writer gleefully tries to get everything down before the bouncers come over to throw him out for laughing like a crazy person to himself all night. The writer cannot say what is good, or what is bad. He can only write. It does not do for one to rank a piece of his work above others, just as it does not do for one to deign to strive to be published. That must be left to others, to come and ask the writer if they may publish his work, and that all of the work would be copyright (c) him 2000-2009, if they were to do so.

Some of the pieces may even seem far too real -- as though he's actually blogging about his real life, his personal thoughts. You know -- because it is a blog, some people may think that may be the case. Well it ain't, damn you, it ain't."

The man in the tracksuit shrugged over the counter. "Thanks for the info, Hemingway," he said, "but I just wanted to know where the damn ATM is."

1 Comment

  • Just!ne

    I <3 this poem! I totally get it, and I'd be nude a lot more if it wasn't for the laws against nudity, plus pajamas are necessary when sleeping in a cold bed during the fall and winter seasons.

    Will you be my pajamas Irfan?

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