visions of luscious beat dreams

visions of luscious beat dreams
recalling my repulsive beauty -
a goddess drunk on bitter chocolate milk

her cool sweaty breasts
soar above purple death
heave towards smooth delirious eternity

Old Man Winter capped my ass

There he laid in a bloody pile of snow - life escaping from a grape-sized hole in his head. He was just minding his business, brushing snow and chiseling frost off of his car windows. And in an instant, he felt a unfamiliar tinge at the back of his skull and collapsed into the snow.

You're cold. You're alone. God abandoned you to your illimitable suffering. It has been speculated that a decapitated head is capable of sight for eight seconds. Eight seconds of rolling from the guillotine. Eight seconds of seeing the faceless masses roar with delight and horror. But is the head still conscious? Does anything register? Is eight seconds a zombie eternity - perched beyond ephemeral bonds, but not yet everlasting? Or does the rolling head peel away its illusions to reveal a natural darkness freed at last from luminous interlopers?

A number of things passed through his wounded skull.

"So you're smart and shit" (XIII)

Jeffrey and I ended up at Lucky's one night. We strolled through a throng of scantily clad women - in various states of inebriation, grinding on beefy testosterone cases - searching for M. The description Donald gave us was utterly useless: blond, voluptuous, tall (but not too tall), extremely sociable, soulful, a true Bodhisattva. Well, the Bodhisattva part would've been enlightening if one could tell from the size and shape of a girl's posterior whether they were a truly daemonic beauty. Although there is much to be learned from the feminine backside, this is not one of them. So we waded anonymously through the throng, picking up disposable number after disposable number, and ticking criteria off of our list. Our candidates fit most of the items - save the last two.

Soulful? Most women think they're soulful - that is until their uncoordinated drunken gyrations prove otherwise. This inescapable fact whittled the field down to three women - a petite blond - a former beauty queen turned exotic dancer - who went by the name of Margaret, a tall slender blond Indian contortionist called Medusa, and a Japanese blond who responded only to the name Moon. These names only have a minor nominal value as placeholders - employed to minimize any confusion that may ensue in their absence.