How had he felt about being that mad guinea pig?
Far rather would have been a Guinness pig,
To be cased and archived
and pounced on like that was a weird sort of life:
surely that you could see.
And between testing and testing and wresting and
writing, and posting and
hosting and being roasted in
he realised there were gonna have to be
limits on the responsibilities he should demand of
himself: one day, it most assuredly did have to end.
Spending the fin of his
ways, as a salve and slave to unquenchable first,
had become utteringly
producing: reducing him from the man he could be to
the creature of terrible emotional plaything:
a ball to be wrapt up
and wound up,
of a loosening nature: the culture of an almost criminal
the culture of permanent hurt.