| buk |
[Thursday the 17th
] |
what matters most is how well you walk through the fire.
|
|
| What's been in my mind |
[Saturday the 18th
] |
The last few weeks have been strange. I need a change. That rhymed.
I've got to stop feeling like this.
|
|
| fourthclosure |
[Saturday the 4th
] |
moving out tomorrow, weird. internship interview on tuesday. press releases? errr... sit down, john.
|
|
| Hoosgow |
[Saturday the 30th
] |
Santi's in the slammer. It's not funny...
but it is funny.
|
|
| Poetry |
[Thursday the 16th
] |
|
School's out in about two weeks, and I want to be more than semester friends.
|
|
| In This Economy, We’re All Whores |
[Friday the 6th
] |
Taxi cabs worm through the neon blur of a city in its Lite-Brite masquerade, toward a cheap motel where a sign flickers ‘no vacancy’ -- quite contrary to the spirit of its faceless pilgrims, the glittering assholes, the taxidermal beauties whose secrets sink under scarlet wallpaper and soil the carpet with their bullshit. A cheeky little harlot with butterscotch stilts and a cherry pout swings open the door of a cabaret where the wind-up dolls play their night games. It’s dark and still her dead eyes hide behind polarized moons; mirror mirror, deja vu. Inside, she collects a meager tax and (securing it beneath ripped fishnets and boustier) begins her sun dance seduction, bruises, burns, and bite marks veiled by the tangerine glow and cigarette smoke screen. The Burlesque queen with her Kentucky Gentleman and mescaline dreams, romantic as spermicidal lubricant and feels about as much as her anaesthetic cream. It’s taxing work, being a whore. But, just like her clients, she could use a decent job.
Maybe the American Dream isn’t so glamorous.
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|