are you sick of looking at your hand yet? NO? take a look at mine.
Are little windows. a grid really, that bisect this plant into the fallopian tubes.
At night, in the presence of a prancing X. Glaring, smiling in two dimensions.
Always Coy, like she hasnt got reason enough to come over and get the engine oiled.
All pile up this way. Im loosing my hair drawing textures in a vacant washed-out space.
Angles are difficult whence turning knobs
Always with their breath on my cheeks.
Another question?
Why am I thinking of letters?
I call my friends bastards. I call them no good fuckers.
Its catharsis from the day-to-day big business and optimism.
What a challenge.
To think we’re so much better than those with whom we call comrade.
Those whom we identify with to the nearest sense of family.
In a fire, In the World Trade Centre, in a roller derby of the future, whose ass are you gonna drag out?
What a challenge.
Not really, though. How’s about a scape goat. You can call a no-good fucker art if someone cares to watch. It would be nice to go a little more off-the-cuff though.
All in time. Paint like Harring on a New York Building side |Crack is Whack
On the Oceanside, roll out the red-carpet.
Take a deep breath, and wait for the money to flow from these hands.
These black and white photocopied foreshortened graphite stained digit steaks.
What does a monkey eat?
Combine Harvester12:28 AM
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