fig.035) loathing, lamentation and some basic flesh Flesh by flesh is, what it is and always has been, Flesh, again and again and again and again and again...A forest of blind dreams, in a valley of monuments where no one, can sleep Some soft fruit from the man man tree, a dry pull from mad youth Some broken weather for the quiet birds, like songs in the grass with dry turds Over the waves that are crashing, over the walls where the river rolls Forbidden are the tastes that we're tasting Wet in the days that we've ended, we've ended old Over and done go the dead things, the dead things that nobody knows, in bed all over and over and over again... From Milch, This Thimbleful... The swath of angry paper I've rolled myself into is disintegrating. Moving through the crowd has made it damp. Now I'm frustrated, being left by the front door this whole time. I start making my way to the kitchen, stopping to pick up a warm beer or sticky glass of something sweet or swea
fig.8) et randy libertine... All of the houses that I've ever known have burned down too the loose sand that was beneath them. Since, James Baldwin has continued to magnify the essence of those I've loved. Surrounding myself steadfastly and without regret, those who have assured me or amplified what I am or have hoped to find inside myself, have only done so by turning away and becoming another soulless asshole that I've had to walk away from. I pull my fingers out of my pants and they're still bloody. I walk into the store and ask for my gun back, but they laugh. I ask for my money back and they hand me liquor instead, cheap booze that has an acrid smell. Then when I walk back inside and ask for more, they look at me with suspicion. I remember being young and disrupting technology, rather then interrupting the whole operation or getting anywhere with the system, we hiccupped. Missing the bed by just a second, being sweaty and still wanting for more. Now, I'm home