This is exciting.

On your right, you'll notice a new link that says, "Borrowed Life of a Poet." If you click on this, you'll get to read a short story of mine.

This story was originally published within the Brock Student Anthology titled "Looking for Trees."

An Excerpt #2:

The first thing that came to mind was a Bukowski poem I read the other day. I couldn’t remember what the title was, or how it went, exactly. But he wrote something to the effect of: “if you take the typewriter away from the writer all you have left is the disease that started him writing in the first place.” I hadn’t written in a long time. I was fucking sick. The disease was winning. The need to write is like an ever present malignant tumour that shrinks and grows depending on how often you write. At this point, mine was fucking huge, located on the brain, inoperable, and clearly causing some functionality issues. If Bukowski were completely honest in his poem, he would have added one simple sentence: “I’m permanently diseased.” I firmly believe all those that feel a need to write are permanently diseased. He’d have said, “I have the sad blue blues and I just want to fuck you – because I’m a writer and the disease is winning.” For him, it was escapism – for me, it’s a poor substitution.

An excerpt:

“You wait right here. I’ll be right back.” I sprung up off the couch and was quickly reminded that I had a hangover. I stood still a moment, but the room kept moving just a bit. Then I continued to the bathroom and grabbed hold of a toothbrush. While I was brushing I couldn’t help but wonder what the fuck I was up to. I hadn’t written a word, I hadn’t made any money, and here I was about to spit out the stench of all my failures. All the bullshit I had spoken – that was likely the bad breath, not the alcohol. Writing is the worst thing one could pin his hopes on. All I do is wish I could pump out ten pages a day, but I can’t put myself through that. It’s like having your father sit you down for a psychiatric evaluation just to hear him say, “You’re just like me and everything else you hate.” But there are the days that the words flow. When the levees break, the words flow seemingly without an end and everything is easy once again and you think, “Maybe things will be alright.” But sure as shit, you’ll find yourself with an obligation that will stop you (not the words – those keep running in your head) like a fucking job and you’ll come back to the page later to find nothing left in your mind but white noise.

I spit out the toothpaste, cleaned up my mouth, and exited the bathroom.

Thank you, Frank O'Hara

You have successfully taught my muse to suck a mean dick.

Forever grateful,
Thomas Hoad.



(Meditations in an Emergency by Frank O'Hara)

Fuck.

I haven’t written anything in three weeks and it’s morning again.
The birds sing through my window and the sun stings my eyes
like an unforgiving soap leaking past ajar eyelids.
Now that I’m awake I dream dream dream
but never eat eat eat because that’s what happens when you’re piss-poor
and that’s what happens when all you want to do is create.

I haven’t written anything in three weeks and today my muse told me why.
She said, “I fucking hate you” but it sounded like, “Do me.”
So that’s what this is. It’s a raping of my muse.
Now that I’ve shot shot shot
things should go smooth smooth smooth like rico suave getting digits
because sometimes that’s what happens when you take a good beer shit.

I've been incredibly bored.

Dear, Jane's Addiction

You cannot be Jane's Addiction without Eric Avery. Please, stop trying. If you do not have Eric Avery playing bass for you, do not make any new music together. Pissing on your legacy only makes me sad.

Sadly, with unconditional love,
Thomas Hoad