real love doesn't exist. so i love every one. you love no one because you believe i am your only love.
when she enters the chrome delicatessen she has little idea where the night will fall. the chrome delicatessen serves inexpensive micros so she loves to hang there.
she is about five foot give or take. lovely with a tender underside.
enola gay wanders the streets looking for an easy mark. runs over ronny reagon. who doesn't now move being lost in death.
enola gay backs up to take a better look.
"don't i know you? haven't i seen you around before?"
"nancy. is that you?"
"no you dipshit. and who the fuck is nancy?"
enola gay wanders the streets looking for an easy mark. runs over ronny reagon. who doesn't now move being lost in death.
nancy loses the mirror to the soul.
in the chrome delicatessen she sits alone andwatches.
this is the true story of the mens room there being no love here.
when he arrives he is well dressed. slight though lovely he has (all ways) thought of himself as a mommys boy. which he is.
he loves to play with the cowboys who frequent this neck of the woods.
he is our beautiful young man.
the last best face dreams as a girl of living in a white frame farmhouse with a lovely porch that wraps around the south side. her lover and she work the land and have children. her dream includes laughter and kindness. but not old age.
the last best face is aware she no longer looks like a girl. she is ashamed of loving you.
when our beautiful young man has a few drinks he flirts. his mother comes out and he is lovely. all the boys in the chrome delicatessen want him. it is true even though they will all later deny this detail.
they conspire to erase the evidence of their horny asses and preoccupations.
our beautiful young man is unaware that love is about to descend upon him like a tsunami at 3 am.
when the last best face enters the mens room she understands the fear that accompanies her irresponsibility. she knows too that love may be present.
the several cowboys pin her to the wall. she doesn't struggle remembering how she lost consciousness the last time.
the cowboy in front of her laughs. the tobacco stuck to his lower front teeth. his wranglers drop to his ankles. he rips her beautiful purple summer wedding dress from india. grabs her two hard kernel tits.
her beautiful purple summer wedding dress from india falls in a puddle on the floor of the mens room.
the cowboy behind her laughs. tobacco glue strikes the last best face behind her left ear. she refuses to be there choosing rather to imagine. there being thus no reality.
the boy with no grace who is broke and only slightly flattered lets her talk about marriage since she will leave soon. he wishes she would wear perfume or something to cover up the ugly humus odor of her presence. she is several years older than him.
the cowboy in front of the last best face slaps her several dozen times. then grabs her by each ear and pulls her head down to his hot green preoccupation slime.
the last best face closes her eyes.
the white farm house is deep in the north carolina forest. she loves the idyll which is her dream. imagines the boy with no grace shirtless out working the soil. she breast feeds their second child. their second daughter.
the melody maker of misogyny slaps her several dozen times.
"who the fuck are you? you fucking bitch loser!"
her eyes closed she clamps her lips around the cowboys green slime preoccupation. she chokes on the work weary worm. she works his cock with tongue and teeth.
she can never return to north carolina. her shame too great.
"i've fallen in love with a boy i met two weeks ago."
"he's the man i'm going to marry."
"of course you are."
she works the cowboys green slime in and out between breaths.
the cowboy leans against the porcelain commode groaning.
the last best faces beautiful purple summer wedding dress from india lies in a puddle at her feet. she bends naked to the cowboys demands of love. there being thus no truth.
the cowboy behind her drops his wranglers to his ankles. he grabs her hard kernel tits and pinches until they burst into thousands of colorful birds flying moonward.
blood clots on the floor of the mens room.
her beautiful purple summer wedding dress from india clots on the tile floor of the mens room.
the second cowboy methodically shoves his fist into her wet square patch. then opens and flails his fingers methodically.
the last best face smiles as she looks out onto the sweating body of her lover. their two bitches playing with their first daughter.
she now succumbs to the violence of love. the universe a truly generous place.
the second cowboy rubs his fist against her abdomen. shoves his slime brown preoccupation deep into her wet square patch. methodically following the rhythm of her breathing.
the two cowboys tickle their preoccupations inside the last best face while she soars on cupped hands her heart beating into thousands of brightly colored birds.
this is momentarily a love story. there being thus no truth.
the cowboys carve their initials all over the last best faces body. her body breaks in two.
at night her lover comes to her and caresses her body with fine soft tongue laps. she lies back and takes his pleasure into her bodys garden of beautiful flowers.
when they begin kicking her she feels the love of god glow in her consciousness.
the first cowboy kicks her in the ass so hard her nose begins to bleed.
the last best face lies in a heap on the tile floor of the mens room. she wraps her arms around her beautiful purple summer wedding dress from india lying in a puddle of clotting blood. the love overwhelming to her imagination. there being no reality there.
she knows the melody maker of misogyny will love her more now.
the true story never being about love.
after several hours our beautiful young man walks to the mens room. he is unconcerned that angels of love follow after him.
he knows he is beautiful.
one angel pushes him from behind. his nose cracks against the pipe feeding the porcelain bowl. he staggers back.
a second angel grabs his armpits and holds him upright.
the first angel tears his pants off. punches our beautiful young man several dozen times in the face and abdomen.
"beautiful jew boy faggot. meet your maker."
all the angels laugh. tobacco juice spews all over our dear beautiful young man.
the second angel rips our beautiful young mans shirt off. strips of fabric stick to his lovely chest and nipples.
our beautiful young man cannot escape into imagination. this reality too much to ignore. he crumples to the tile floor of the mens room.
the first angel shoves his fist up his ass. opens his fingers flailing digging at the soft sensitive flesh.
they all laughter all around. angels singing.
"cock sucker. you're about to meet your maker."
"flaming faggot jew sonofabitch."
"how's this feel faggot."
they all laughter all around. angels singing. tobacco juice spews all over the body of our dear beautiful young man.
the angels stand around their pants to their ankles. their slimy green preoccupations harder than ever. they all stand hot for our beautiful young man. his nakedness more holy than their hands. their bastard penises: formally called cocks or dicks. scarred from lonely nights in one room shacks.
the other angel grabs our beautiful young man and pulls his head by the ears forcing his green slimy preoccupation down his throat.
our beautiful young man struggles not to smother. keeps every detail in his mind. memory being a sure defense. he must remain alert. there being no imagination here. this being reality.
a second angel pinches his nipples until they fall off. shoves his brown slimy preoccupation hard into his ass. mechanically fucks his brains out.
all the angels wait their turn. shake their semen all over our beautiful young man a naked heap of blood piss and bile on the tile floor of the mens room.
the boys all laughter as they knock and knock on the faggots door shouting epithets.
"gonna kill you you cocksucker faggot."
"come on. open up. prepare to meet your maker you jew faggot."
the faggot hides behind his bed too terrified to imagine escape. the phone in the other room near the door.
our beautiful young man floats out of his body as the angels of love strip his flesh and tie him to the fence.
our beautiful young man floats out of his body and flies moonward a solitary brightly colored bird.
jesus the bastard blames his mother for all his troubles. his father somewhere in argentina somewhere.
enola gay lies in a bloodied heap on the floor of the mens room. her intestines strewn all over the floor mixing with blood piss and bile. her tits now mere scars. she may be is dying. this cancer rages.
our beautiful young man gently touches his lovers preoccupation in the melody of enchantment. he takes it delicately into his mouth. into his ass. there being this truth. thus no love. their pleasure beyond tomorrow.
her beautiful purple summer wedding dress from india lies in a puddle on the tile floor of the mens room.
the angels of love follow the emperor of infanticide. break childrens heads like they were sticks of candy. their laughter floats up toward heaven like metal balloons.
no amount of imagination is enough to prepare for the terror of our loneliness and suicide tonight.
angels whose dreams preoccupy them crumple in hopeless denial.
the melody maker of misogyny brags to every one listening that
he remains the greatest. his face covered by the blood piss and bile of
his many lovers.
the last best face squirms around their neighborhood refusing to look him even in the eye. her shame that great.
the mountains to the west all ready topped with snow. two children wearing helmets jump their bikes off the curb.
keep your eyes wide open or you will miss the solitary moment of a kindness.
the black st. louis musician composes on the body of the long haired white boy his most ambitious melody.
euphoric spirals take all of me please.