Uh, most poets have faces?
Look, I didn’t sign on to make more of these. I just… you liked them so much, so I wanted to make more.
I didn’t. Instead I wrote an awesome story where this Bear discovers he’s a reincarnation of Hunter S. Thompson and goes to re-infiltrate the Hells Angels, only now he has to hide that he’s Hunter S. Thompson, and also a bear.
I called it “Bear S. Thompson”.
But my computer ate it.
Also, most of that was a lie.
Poets are liars.
We say beautiful things sometimes because they’re beautiful, not because they mean anything.
Sometimes, sometimes we fall in love with all these ideas and ideals that we throw around, and we get so wrapped up in these worlds we see around us that we lose track of everything outside that.
It’s kind of like falling in love with yourself, but throwing it at other people and demanding they wear them as costumes, and most of the time they’re like, “Hey, cool, thanks. It’s really sweet you made me a costume to wear.”
And you’re nodding like, “Yeah, I’m awesome, I’m sweet.” Stroking your fingers where they can’t see as they put it on.
And as you consume them, as you assimilate them into your consciousness, it tastes of gingerbread and lilacs, unless they smoke. Smokers taste like bacon.
Poets like bacon.
Well, non-vegetarian, non-vegan poets.
