Poems and tits aside, let me state things frankly:
I am not a licensed dick detective. I'm a cock journalist without a lead. And even then, I only say it to make you think less of me. I want to surprise you! Delight you! Excite you! Because I can show you more than a good time. If somebody important told you that I was hilarious, I could have you laugh till you cry.
Unfortunately, I can't write about machines. I've got no structure that I can trust to treat my thoughts with the utmost respect. I think I am an outlaw. Shooting at you without a rifle, quick to write an apology. Because I haven't been sought after by my beloved lady magazines. I don't want to seem desperate, so I don't send them anything. But because I haven't, I question talent. Then again, it doesn't matter. I just can't talk to people when I have to win them over. I've heard that I have a fear of success. Which is awful, because you can't even succeed at a proper failure.
But I can successfully write about spitting on a dick with quick wit to whip you into a fit. I could talk about tragedies and theorems of human destitution, empathy distorted by narcissism corrupted. I won't. It's been said by others, more likely with apt persuasion but it's too sad for me to say again. It's not right for me to trick your tears while I use them to fan the flames of sympathetic notoriety. I'd rather have you think about stupid thoughts and indulge myself in a sea of passionate embers.
I paint for you with words, no less of an artist than one who wakes canvas.