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