An hour of sleep dragged in shattered, blurred bits across the weekend. No, it wasn't Vegas. But, fiery castles occupied by Serge don't turn. We went down the river. No gondoliers just mangos falling as pushed thorn after thorn into our aching brain. God, Sex, Gimp, Gud, Sext, Elmer, Fuddled. And what— And what— Stuttering/Slashed/On a Loop-- We don't come back from flames. We don't come back. We just float. Rage. And dine.
Crossing 96 bridges at a time you smile me like a strobe. A plump apple moved through us over and over. Sometimes 5X simultaneously. You looked at me. Everything rice cacti. Tree tied to bucket tied to through the arm, vein-blossom spoiled over. He run that town. Brent’s Cross! Curried nonchalance, hands shaking. Frying loss. Misdeeds and cramp. Sleeping in the day, sweating out the night. Disappearing yachts o’ Tallon V.
Every restaurant does the diavola in its own way. But we came in like conquerors. Not plump. You in a loin cloth. Me in a loin cloth. Our four attendant Chimp Guards all resplendent, greying hair surfing. Jackie Onassis is the poshest of Americans, in the pokiest of rooms. Gossip, sex, shape. Candle-to-anus. Grazing lips and leaping winks. Frankly, blown in Hollywood.
Your man sat down and the pasta was spinning like a Nero sphere. The disco nightmare was just staring. He was dressed as an Eastern Europe schoolgirl. You texted The King. He started to shake, drinking my breakfast. Mentions of scorched earth: unlucky. A pigswill of almost-models, silver-plated and rude :why you gotta be so. The charm of ownership – sweat off my brow. Balthus breast-fondling, way; Trocchi chitchatting, sway. The Anarchist Butler/
Suffolk (p’haps), K*** (can’t even say), and there must be others. Otters can only be saved by drinking Otter, ti’s trues. Raise your oar on the water and smile to Jehovah. He constructed this whole canal for you, dear/ pant and raise and grasp at lustful backsides swaying in yoga pants strolling astride streams of comeliness. Fixed to a shot from the moon, sort me avec teenage bursts of BAMHITSCHRIST. Call me over your shoulders. This is a Romantic Comedy. Nothing graphic. Really, a house full of primary whores. Demons in da mirrors.
15. 18 ducks screeched louder and louder. I liked the topless one, with the female breasts. And the gucci handbag. Dainty is the escaped prison, whose speech is nothing, noting thought and passion passing in an obscure snow. Dented carriage, passed by in oldie pubs often entered by the touristas and the blistas (moneymaking fiends). Somebody else’s room,and Night at water’s edge where only cadges sing and Ginsberg basks in a purpling Ganges. Ye are Monet, drinking in the impressions of masts flirting in the city.