Here's a late present for your birthday.
You always wanted to know what my profile was, so you could read my old shit, but I always resisted because, well, it's shit. I still think my stuff is shit, but at least it has metre and rhyme now.
Because I can't guide you through them, defending myself: Don't try to read too much into any of them. Most of them were just my chance to make 9/11 jokes and game related double entendres. Several of them were just taken from some journal that I can't find, and the rest were just me writing poetry in a stream, which is NEVER good. I'm very white.
But you knew that.
Anyway, since I have no idea when you'll read this, see you when I see you, and I can't wait to hear you next.
And because I can't be direct when online:
[link]--Ian.
Post Script. Beware the British spelling. Sorry.
Post Post Script. You know, it's so funny that people include post scripts in the age of word processors and email and such. The idea of a post script is a late thought that's too late to attach to the main body. It makes sense with typewriters and SCRIPT, but not when you can go back and easily put it in. Just to make it that much more ridiculous, I sign it the same way you traditionally sign a post script.
--I.