Meandering

Writing just to write. Or am I typing for an audience? Best not to overthink this. In my room, the walls lay baren, needing picture frames, needing pictures. A tripod stand stands with no camera, the camera sitting to my right. Write. My phone is blinking, I have some message, some sort of message. A flannel flung to the floor companions my unzippered backpack, next to leather jacket. Orange are the bottles of yonder, on and over the counter, rather sill by the window. Dennis the fish breaths with that labyrinth organ, in cloudy water. Good for him. Boots and shoes up against the wall, no Galliano for me thanks. A stack of picture frames, like I told you sit bedside. I haven't tried the TV, yet I bet the set has B.E.T. No net for Dennis, the beta menace, still needs water like a metallurgist needs tetanus...shots. Getting obscure, can't endure lucid thought for long. Is it pure, is it newer, fewer now than there once was. Although thought meanders through the land of borderline salience. The author's reeling for a cortex meal, but cornflakes are all he'll get. Mucinex and then what's next, do you feel better your chest unfettered, or is it something else? Mostly rhetoric, said housebound Frederick. So am I here for rhyme or reason? Your canvas stretches white and wretched, wanting to be stroked or brushed or poked. Scarred scared the air is stale, the room's still bare everywhere that I stare. But hark a spark of lark most stark amongst the dark of lethargy park. That's what I'll say when I find my mark and start my lark.