Sample breast, no, quiver meltdown. The likeness of a horror of you like the better parts of a million. There against your orange drink you water the boy. Chinatown face blurred like faraway stars. Whimpering not because of it, but because it’s it. Practitioner of years ago. a subtle abandonment in weeds. Hurry across those farms, there’s a granddad buried up to his ashes there. He milked a torn trussed thistle like it was a song. The color moves out and is replaced by struck chords. Lingberries.
Blue fugitives worked over with their eyes.
A round red Christmas tree ornament: You pulled that one last year.
Pearly lubricants, all about the monkeys, time for sousing out the jammed hungers. September was a down address like a cursed looking boy do you mind. Crashed belted boinging, all the time in harmony.
The bench he used to touch in his pants.
Fuck temple viruses, they’ve been in the family for years. One native minded so, so we shot him, so we walked and crashed away anyway.
“I have an uneasy feeling about being in someone else’s film” he said, with one eye on the money and the other on the money next to it.
Vodka, bourbon, beer: as youth is poised to be better than the lots of paper that litters the streets and never seem to say Sorry.
He rubbed his legs across me, and I let him dry fuck me until he came and I was so sore I bruised and bled and told people about it later in a funny way.
Bending down like that won’t help come helplessly.
The narrator will now describe how he has always had a competitive streak:
jimmy john fuck all need been all be the stasis of green ribbons and huts like nuts been all boring fuck and that’s my inspiration all milkey way tossed yes hampered in the back like jokes no unfunny to you you don’t know me mike this catfish cracked all the black folks up private lights left on and burnt the winter bill seeming the same as summer but audrey can’t be sure can she i’m sure of it like fine whispers told about some time ago told that you wouldn’t be the right one for the job you wouldn’t be the one left for letting let be iron tits to suckle and compromise the image enough to be foreign the best THE BEST but not willing to concede the faults that streak across the lawn like so many sprinklers making a mockery of the living by the simple act of not drowning but DROWNING the very thing that best describes you the thing that floats the mess you’ve made of it all and feign dignity like a french hello
Pissing out martinis and collapsing drool.
Even when walking, best of friends.
