Quotably

Enough is Enough. Serially, I've slipped down a dinged-out dream, scoring not once but twice on a meteor of Success. Somehow, I still haven't one.

To Dance With Two Twins by Moonlight
To do the dance is a treacherous trail; to mistake one's steak for another's. Once, take my hand (or hands?) and wrap, wrap, rap on the front door, wooden chimes, knockers brass'd. Forgo this "fucking bullshit". Fry me a frank? Two dogs on the burner burn slowly and char nicely. Stripes mark the ones, once placed down before; they'll be twins in no time.
--Moonlight






Sitting in the back of a taxicab heading through the borders of suburbia. Trees pass and the green of the traffic light appears nine-fold on the plastic divider. Three sets of three triangles bounce with the headlights doubled and walk signs three'd and four'd across two o'clock thirty. The road evens out on either side as he slips over the yellow lines, dipping into the middle of the abandoned intersection. I am siting behind him. Eyes fixed on the mirror, I watch as his lids sputter gently, dwindling down until they are almost shut. He comes in and out, gliding left and right and still I watch his eyes...






I think I hear sex outside. Sex or machinery.

Does it help to look at the ground while you walk?

If not, I fear you might walk into me or a pole or worse yet a train, yeti, or left-over lightning, wet and whetted from the ground-on rain. It's not clear enough why you think with your head to the ground.


I have not a lot more to say, but wait--
There is a monster I have seen in the face of Danger. He thinks himself a punk and he is in the British sense; he fucks like a demon. He wears a woman's mask and mashed all who entered into a pulp. I want in more now than I ever have.
Some day his smile will fall on deaf ears, his laugh on blind eyes. Someday he will not be recognized. Until then, recognize!






I keep seeing gap-teeth where only Oreo's once have been. I keep laughing at this.











She could not help her aversion to red-heads. They were sly, like Satan: this is what she thought. Her eyes followed him from the roof of her house, rifle pointed just before where he was about to walk. In cartoons, when a bird is killed its feathers remain. As she pulled the trigger she could see his ginger tuft, floating helplessly, haplessly there in the stale July air.

In order to fall asleep,

she bit the balsam-wood dipped in moonshine, grinding her teeth and its parts to a pulp. This helped with the shimmying in.








Feeling I'd like to cut his shirt a little bit more
I like his shoulders so much.
T-shirts are just fabric'd excuses for not touching.