R46

Illiteracy is everywhere. I am editing an article of a brat who thinks he's a journalist. Trying to salvage his sentences. As if I'm woodcarving with feather. Hunting runaway thoughts and tired words. As if I'm scraping facade of a hovel trying to make it look like a cathedral. Market is crap. No more available wordsmiths. They either burned out or escaped to more profitable neck of the woods. They are too high to care for hilarous ignorance. Maybe they are hiding, cuddling their words lovingly and grooming them for some loftier audience.

I chew through this writing, so shoddily put together, yet adorned with kitch adjectives and almost anagramatical nonsense. I complain, of course, feeling grumpy like janitor cleaning after kids that care nothing for order and cleanliness. Each passage is like ripe barbecued sausage. I dare not pierce the thin skin, lest few precious droplets of sense will leak and sizzle upon the embers of my anger at this reckless youth's scribbling. 

Poet! I need a poet to sting with his sharpest words, for I'm losing this boxing match with greenhorn phrases of choleric quasi-journalist kid who thinks he is so smart for turning his language to sequence of anglosaxon jokes. My head is dropping. I cluck with exhaustion.