#1977 #AmericanWriters #LoveIsADogFromHell
what is it about lobsters and crab… those white-pink shells that always make me hungry just looking at them there in the butcher’s display case
she was hot, she was so hot I didn’t want anybody else to have… and if I didn’t get home on time she’d be gone, and I couldn’t bear… I’d go mad. . .
sleepy now at 4 a.m. hear the siren of a white ambulance,
blue fish, the blue night, a blue… everything is blue. and my cats are blue: blue fur, bl… blue whiskers, blue eyes. my bed lamp shines
over my radio now comes the sound of a truly mad org… can see some monk drunk in a cellar mind gone or found,
“...I’ve seen people in front of their typewriters in such a bind that it would blow their intestine… right out of their assholes if the… were trying to shit.”
we’d had any number of joints and… beer and I was on the bed stretche… and she said, “look, I’ve had 3 ab… in a row, real fast, and I’m sick… abortions, I don’t want you to sti…
Phillipe ’s is an old time cafe off Alameda street just a little north and east of the main post office. Phillipe’s opens at 5 a.m.
the history of melancholia includes all of us. me, I writhe in dirty sheets while staring at blue walls and nothing.
John F. Kennedy flower knocks upo… shot through the neck; the gladiolas gather by the dozens… India dripping into Ceylon;
My mother went to her low-paying job each morning and my father, who didn’t have a job, left each morning too. Although most of the neighbors were unemployed he didn’t want them to thin...
here I am in the ground my mouth open and
has been going on for some time. there is this young waitress where… at the racetrack. how are you doing today?” she asks… winning pretty good,” I reply.
when you’re young a pair of female high-heeled shoes just sitting
my moustache is pasted-on and my wig and my eyebrows and even my eyes... then something stuns me... the lampshades swing, I hear