Fun is subjective.

Some people can watch willows grow

for hours

and hours.

But I cannot.


For me,

fun is a little more risqué

I like to watch people

spill their secrets.

I could do it

for hours and hours.


Like a secret agent,

I love to interrogate.

I’m always on the prowl

for new information

to guzzle.


Good tidings

are a nice crisp crunch,

but they don’t really cut it.

If you really want my rapt



bring me tragedy.


The woes and harms

that occur,

they aren’t ever


The more,

the MerriEr.

I relish in it.

It’s the butter for my infernal bread.

Infernal bread.


When it gets to toasty,

when I’m in the hot seat,

it’s not any d i f f e r e n t.

Gossip about myself,

pours sonorous,

but not everyone

has my thirsty ears.


If I could get a mirror

or make a <–Time–> paradox

and give myself

my own undivided attention,

that would probably be sufficient.

Maybe my own gossip

would be so satisfying

to the alter me,

I would be sated.

But I doubt it/

One thought on “Ravenous

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