Frank's Wild Years

Frank settled down in the Valley
and he hung his wild years on a nail that he drove through his wife's forehead
He sold used office furniture out there on San Fernando Road
and assumed a 30,000 dollar loan at fifteen and a quarter percent
put a down payment on a little two bedroom place

His wife was a spent piece of used jet trash
Made good Bloody Mary's
Kept her mouth shut most of the time
Had a little Chihuahua named Carlos
that had some kind of skin disease
and was totally blind

They had a thoroughly modern kitchen
Self-cleaning oven, the whole bit
Frank drove a little sedan
They were so happy

One night Frank was on his way home from work
He stopped at the liquor store
Picked up a couple of Mickey's Big Mouths
Drank 'em in the car, and with a Shell station
he got a gallon of gas in a can
Drove home, doused everything in the house
Torched it
Parked across the street laughing
Watching it burn
All Halloween orange and chimney red
Then Frank put on a top forty station
Got on the Hollywood Freeway
and headed North


Never could stand that dog

As a young man, I yearned to write something half as wildly brilliant as that.

After several years, however, I realised I didn’t have the talent and settled down to writing media releases that harm few.

I am indeed lucky I never attended any of the “creating writing” courses that have spread like Patterson’s Curse in recent years across Victoria, convincing the gullible that despite their withering lack of talent all they need to do is “find their inner voice”.

Bollocks.

Writing is a skill, like plumbing or taxidermy. With enough training, you can acquire the basics but without talent, you’ll never advance beyond that level.

At least talentless taxidermists have the good grace not to display their wares in public in displays of “performance taxidermy”.