Rage

Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

I am retribution.

I like the dark, I dance in the night, I listen to Chopin and read Byron, Poe and Dante by lamplight. Sometimes I laugh out loud. But I rage quietly. I wouldn’t want passing strangers thinking I’m weird.

The hands of the clock spin faster and faster (yes, I have a clock with hands because I am educated and I don’t need a clock wot sez 23.15) and here we are again, it’s another day. Fuck me, what happened to the one I was enjoying? “You’re too slow chum, speed up and race towards your final breath, you’ve had your go on the swings and you’re taking up space you old cunt.”

No.

If ever there was an era when youth was wasted on the young, this is it. What a feeble bunch of whining trouser shitters the young are today. “Ooooooh, I’m offended!” they chorus at anything and everything. Good. Be offended and fuck off back to noddy-land you miserable, weedy cunts. I will offend you at every opportunity and watch you drown in the spittle from your cocksucking lips as you declaim your spluttering outrage at no-one in particular. Yes weedy millenials, fuck off and cry and take your coffee-coloured world with you. Cunts.

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