When you think you're desperate, the drinks you drink to find the mule's fight boil down to tasting like a tinge of bull's urine on a leaf, and while you piss it out, you flip the dial to chamber music and sit and read the rainy LA to NY literature and you feel the downpour of droppings outside, slapping off the intellect that six maidens roofed on your rotted slat shanty for the coming flushing winter as a sweat sticky down comforter, and finally it is so that comforting her is safer.
By the looks, we'll have to carol in shorts.
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2 comments:
second person
safer
there are other ways to fight torture.
oh my. wonderfully joycean.
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