Postcard from the edge...
(“We cannot keep returning to the brink again and again, like tourists…”)
Darling,
“That left leg” (the quotation I am indebted to) does not know the Cross I bear, the Stain left by coffee on my shoe, or the milky odors hidden in its mixture. The tariffs to lubricate the rejections of my device beyond that, the muddy mass which encourages dreams in this mode of Kibosh. GREAT XERXES!
Jane buds as well, the children go to mass, where balances of a nasal virtuoso in the old key could wake the deaf, the Church a bloody cave, the play, the familiar coma, the copy adjusts to the dead body of Jesus. In between, the noise of the luggage and saxophones, the barrels of color that begin the sale of music machines, each come with the same nasal Diva, who dirtied the experts. It all just increases my faith in the cause.
The theater here! Awkward hams with the magic, kith with charm, holding the blockings on their limited bottles, in the river of discussion with Ganesh. The breath of corn, massive ravines of knishes, gerbils… The peace of the cry to be pushed outside, like the nudity mentioned and thus male.
Ski Euro sweeping the system with believed lubrication, the pigeon fabric ear and hard-worked abs, my corny friend. If we raise the bud of Braille in the ravines, the chief of the falsification of the backcomb, human in the anger of Java or Mohicans, joke off the affluent Left as “Chiefs for the Period,” order our luggage in addition to jiving and Marie. The increase in jet that, Barf knows, the zoo of parents those sheep, jolt mother right off the stage, the refinery of sugar, the role of the cut, those which knew the key of the witch, chew the scenery, how tiresome…
Kiss the children for me,
27 July 2009