by Greg Fuchs
Reenact the mayhem. Sick hammers a nail through his penis as an argument with death. Everyone wants a piece of the hardest working author in the Lower East Side. He makes every party, he cuts his own hair,he is loved by all. Love isn't a box of money. The subway lunges forward at every stop. Coffee spills all over the cuffs. The cheap suit doesn't fool anyone, then again you can fool a fool. Civil disobedience enlightens the Bronx in the face of city hall's arrogance. A score of bullets deposited in the flesh of a peddler passed off as routine policing flashes the underbelly of the war on the quality of life. The quality of life is inundation.
Drunk on wine her brain makes acid and her hand makes a pass, locking her forearm through the triangle made by my arm on my hip. He cuts his own hair because, who has time to get their hair cut. Everyone loves him because he's brilliant, humble, saintly in a competitive community.
You can't control him forever. The best time to go to bed is strong. Twelvetrees" book - Ken Schles - Ves showed in the shop - high contrast, soft focus, out of focus, dark photographs of tenement rooms, naked bellies in kitchen bathtub, a man between a woman's legs amid debris, lawn chairs, vines, girls on dates with girls, skyrockets red glare. An albatross swoops, pecks the most beautiful man in the world's nose as the rollercoaster car achieves its crest.
Getting to your bottom line isn't a force of nature. Good songs tell the truth. All the chinos in the world won't bring us together, the lie is just even more exposed as a lie by soundtracking the truth behind the improper relations. Get your career out of your pants chief.
Rogue cops reflect a rogue force. The tragedy is a crime not a tragedy.