Duck, Duck, Cockatiel
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The move is officially complete, though I'm still living with a few islands
of stuff—the main one located in what agents like to call the "meals area".
Rea...
7 years ago
Wednesday, August 10, 2005
Cats Vomit on My Groin
Life. Kitchen sinks falling through the sky. The clouds are humming like cocktails. Jealousy in admirers of my faith. Floating in pools of me. Love, love, directed only to me. Circumcise an apple for experience. God exists in the sense that people think of me as him. Floating flowers. Breezes lifting me and my beauty and my hotness. Oh baby, I'm the one. I'm as hot as the sun. Open your eyes, start a moving picture theatre. Only show films starring me, or else you're wasting your rolls. Take obscure close-up pictures of body parts in black and white. Love, lust, love, lust. Both are directed at me by all. On the rag again, can't wait to get back on the rag again. Ben's still jealous of my asset. Silhouettes and arses bathe in pools of hot sink seductresses (who, of course, secretly love me). The sky, with. I can't always be your golden statue, personkind. Lies rotting in baby's nappies. Sun smiling at me and only me because I'm hotter then it and it knows it so it smiles at me. Amnesty International employees seize up in my toilet. Cats vomit on my groin.
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3 comments:
Scary and hilarious. Sounds like a pastiche of my posts ;-/ grrr poor little self centered me, bouhou
I loooove it, bouhaha! This is not just funny, this is ridicoulously tragical grotesque, pathetically invigorating, and I don't know what i mean anymore, sigh.
Ha ha. Thanks. Using your style as a launching pad, I really was somewhat taking off myself as well — and this type of stuff in general. I'm very glad you took it well, which is great testament to your character. I guess it was an evasive form of pseudo-self-deprecation. Oh and I wouldn't even call you self-centred — that was more a comment on that type of writing as a whole. Anyway, thanks again.
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