Sunday, November 15, 2009

Brazilian Wax In Columbus, Ga

wet cloud high voltage


life treats me gently on the edge of a dead river.


stink eight hours after he enrolled at the hotel even has a mobile to call ... Takes very little to establish contact, a taxi horn, the river stinks, is lost under the bridge, he takes power, the taxi, the river, the smell ...

life treats me with kindness and forgetfulness Quote failed? "Drowned in the storm, in your voice? "Drowned in the dirty river stirred? He stopped the clock

Eight hours recorded.

shower ... It and not stink to river. Where is the Centaur?
Sing under the clean water "in the back, looking me in the mouth and eyes" in the presence of exit and the seaman himself. Welcome to the hole on to the winter
When the ice is thin you have to walk fast

Eight hours later he arrives with cello and keyless "We have come a long way." (His voice sounds like something quiet, a tomb).

act together, survive together, I'm not the woman for making me: I like cemeteries, I'll live in your verb

s
i
fail, shoot me once

between the eyebrows

Pick a monument, a cemetery, a legion of cats ... I have naturally fear.
dawn comes with a soft notes of JS Bach or some jazz of Chet Baker
I liked and I came, perplexed ¿?... knew he would never forgive me.


The river stinks of dead: your body, mine. My body coat again, I've learned something, but ... How the hell I can tell? A rabid dog ate my insides while my tangled brain. I do not remember how fuck me ice cream on marble angel.

memory Now I'm metamorphic limestone.

Saturday, September 19, 2009

Linsey Dawn They Think





lack of energy
Monday-Thursday, Friday electric
your mouth
Chet Baker and his faults repaired


at stake


could be even a goal topped

heaven or melt

flight of a bird

fully

Sunday, September 6, 2009

Keurig Can You Use Milk

past, present ... and future Taro and Capa



I'm already ... When we meet again? In their eyes, I can not conceal a little sadly.

not close the session, he says, not yet. A chat together write the screenplay for this story. Give it a title. (Any excuse keeps me dumb, I think ...)
Is the memory of the gargoyles? I suggest to evoke the mystery of the moon cast shadows on the Baroque buildings, the dark hallways near the port, his hand on my shoulder ...
Guess my nostalgia, smiles, is recreated, it proposes: Or "The memory of the oyster mushrooms" and we can continue writing in the woods, this autumn ...?

has cooled but is still summer, I shudder.

and skin experts predict a good year for mushrooms.