Melancholia

Melancholy This is a blue day it is like having a ring of steel pressing against my head. Nothing matters there is no outlet and I want to go home, anywhere, to get away from myself. I sit on the terrace look at the view it is ing boring bloody sea like I shouldn’t have seen it before after thirty years as a mariner. This morning I saw athletic people running along the promenade I sat in my car looked at my considerable stomach, so that is what has become of me a fat old man sinking into the woollen atmosphere of self-loathing the hatred against the world only a loser feels. Sexless, useless old age has made me a eunuch whatever this means I might have got the wrong spelling of the word and my own poetry is not uplifting, too harmful to be read by anyone who isn`t contemplating suicide? it all I will write no more, go sit in a bar till they throw me out.