grundrisse
A health food worker's t-shirt says in cursive, travel around you. he packs up dozens of macrobiotic organic and dairy-free sandwiches, which by tomorrow will be stale and soggy as well as macrobiotic organic dairyfree. he is spanish and has a swollen ankle. he works in the madrid airport and is now takes the elevator up and down the three floors between his booth and the airport shuttle whereas normally he would take the stairs then
escalator. the type of clientele who chide and teach their children moral lessons from the earliest age smile at him, "your foot...", their faces sampling pity because it's free. his dark lover is waiting at home for him with a point of meth, which they will smoke, before showering, fucking, and running in the streets in freshly laundered shorts. His lover has long hair and a cock like a banana. Neither of them come. His feet in new nikes, white, plush, and the sweat, which looses itself from his body, are the same thing. He will play basketball. And twist his other ankle. The smell of the ball, taut, pushes against his nicotine fingers, like a wing of Renaissance paintings wherein the baby holds coral and the woman a flower, probably Mantegnas, imposed upon like a sigh. This is unworthy. There are no rooms full of ghosts. It is a pinhead-angel type equation. It is a room full of pinheads and in the gaps are thoughts thought by thugs and bank robbers. They number in their thousand-millions. They think of home. Of family. The next bank. A glass of orange juice. More knuckles. Of sex. Of the perfect ass. Of their small dicks. Of their big dicks. Boxing. One day having children. Of going to the local butcher to pick up some shanks. Of her excellent cooking, goddamn, almost as good as my mother's. Of the beach. Of the stripper. Of dirty bills and clean bills. Of their smell. The sawn-off shotgun and the sawn-off head. Of their friends, of their enemies. That they are sometimes the same thing. Of a song on the radio. Of home. Of family. Of ass. I will loosen a room full of ghosts. The shy fat girl will get down on her knees to suck his dick. He holds the back of her head and fucks her mouth. He finishes and she wipes her mouth and smiles. She has known him since childhood.
escalator. the type of clientele who chide and teach their children moral lessons from the earliest age smile at him, "your foot...", their faces sampling pity because it's free. his dark lover is waiting at home for him with a point of meth, which they will smoke, before showering, fucking, and running in the streets in freshly laundered shorts. His lover has long hair and a cock like a banana. Neither of them come. His feet in new nikes, white, plush, and the sweat, which looses itself from his body, are the same thing. He will play basketball. And twist his other ankle. The smell of the ball, taut, pushes against his nicotine fingers, like a wing of Renaissance paintings wherein the baby holds coral and the woman a flower, probably Mantegnas, imposed upon like a sigh. This is unworthy. There are no rooms full of ghosts. It is a pinhead-angel type equation. It is a room full of pinheads and in the gaps are thoughts thought by thugs and bank robbers. They number in their thousand-millions. They think of home. Of family. The next bank. A glass of orange juice. More knuckles. Of sex. Of the perfect ass. Of their small dicks. Of their big dicks. Boxing. One day having children. Of going to the local butcher to pick up some shanks. Of her excellent cooking, goddamn, almost as good as my mother's. Of the beach. Of the stripper. Of dirty bills and clean bills. Of their smell. The sawn-off shotgun and the sawn-off head. Of their friends, of their enemies. That they are sometimes the same thing. Of a song on the radio. Of home. Of family. Of ass. I will loosen a room full of ghosts. The shy fat girl will get down on her knees to suck his dick. He holds the back of her head and fucks her mouth. He finishes and she wipes her mouth and smiles. She has known him since childhood.
ß
i see the face ofjesus
in my hand
it is palmyra
jejas died the arh=cheologiist’
the black face of dearth
skapping pythagorusa
i am twisting msekf aroud tony ocnrad
a;; of these insight
was to get sam
to atake mxe while listening to tony cord
illl hilkd him down m
my finers have disappeared over the bar
ifity poooll
it;s swayed away
the berg that move s the body it weighs me down
i mjst plane and hone and scrape you out of orange for our to fore the weigh of it
thrst
just thrust
no one denies a tin waist
marissa nichols you're my superhero
jitter bue vie stared tony aain
no from all sides
yes
entere
the wallsar e dark
it speeches high and rust red its iron you cant separate me
then i cant find jump pump
w=y=a;; b=;ue falls int do i write stupid’dwon red
conrad
twe sink slowly through the space i lost my watch when i was 12 theowing away
streams and rams of me reams off
folden sounds the ream of fold that you playing me
i; play at screen shot no at f3
this is the same those through space
if you flop over a mountain for me it;ll never happen
ß
i eat a whole bag of salt and vinegar chips thinking of someone maybe you you call them crisps or the beer conjures another better form ripe for nostalgia everyone looks better in my imagination sounds funnier me too like feeling full i wouldn’t eat so many if there was someone here to impress i don’t share with my cat even though i’m full even though he’s asking but i refuse as if subtly to say i’m not sharing because you ask me so there
grundrissestraße
grundrissestraße
