cunt smoker
July 27, 2011 1 Comment
i don’t know where the end goes, she said, stumbling over her words.
smoking crack until 5 am in bathrooms* with sigourney weaver plasterd.
my dear, my dear, i guess we are all here still. caring and becoming
becoming patterns and tiny lines, lost in edges and words, because words , . .
my father will have a beard, i won’t have a home but a closet filled with facial
expressions of confusion and and. . .
sitting in computer with waterfall, behind my back and in the front in the beginning. my eyes are tired but not too tired, to smile my tiny orifice, the one that no one knows about but everyone always wets the mat before. . .
*(streets &&)
