Friday, February 27, 2009
Strawberry circus and I rode that roller coaster spinning and reeling and screaming into the cloudless blue bleached in scorching, bleating and oppressive sunlight. Up .. down.. more loops.. and more loops. I could quit this, I say. I could punctuate some rhino'ed fluid influenza into an envelope worth receiving. Aquamarine.. Purple .. and now Amber .. but still aquamarine, and still purple.. still sticky sweet and indulgent. "Blasphemy!". yes. it is that. and much much much much more. i can ser her bent and bruised and hunchback with one eye that opens like tin can owl, and another that squints like some lemony pressured pussy-cat doll meow and me. Wart warts warts.. one on the nose.. one somewhere less visible.. and the brewing. blasphemy. I felt poetry like a warm breeze, but the cuckoling and cackle of some old trenchy bitch has left my blinded by the nerons that stand still on my neck like soldier pines on a hill like simile popcorn to mess shit up. If you masturbate, you will grow hair on your hands and warts. I have both. Well, only one wart, which is ironically placed about 1 inch from where I used to think I had stigmata.