(and i imagine never mind Joe agreeably cheerfully remarked when
and ends on
Those final Creatures,-who they are
just as the sun begins to leak through a crack in the thick curtains, threatening just so to penetrate dust and the smoky haze. cancer and sunlight, rhythm and rhymes. morning comes and the house is still with sleep displaced from the surrounding, stirring world. a private place, settling into deceptive slumber as the day seeps over the horizon.
she is the walrus, koo-koo-ka-choo, and all you need is love when you've got a good joint pressed to your lips and all of eternity spread out in front of you like the biggest water-bed you've ever seen. it's the weed, maybe, the sweet kisses of mary jane and a lingering sugar-taste of chewing gum-- it gets her lazy and liquid, licking the slick white of her teeth and breathing smoke out like dragon's breath.
she thinks she'd like to meet oscar wilde, or the rolling stones. wants to go to jail, or go to paradise, or go sky-diving. naked. or just lay there forever, awake-dreaming of love, peace, and things for lottie moonjava.
and think that perhaps it is a little ridiculous-- a little ironic, in a way that might make a person sneer instead of laugh. there isn't much of a point in immortality, not really, if it can't take away the aches and the pangs, the needles and pins, the cold sweat. he'd be embarrassed, maybe, he'd consider the injury to his pride-- his ego, a thing of thick wallets and prada shirts and lilly pulitzer ties-- if he didn't need a fix bad enough to fucking die.
he could have grown old on tales of the tuatha dé danann and his grandmother's superstitions on the docks by the ocean that separated them from sweet starving airlann. he could have been a butcher or a sailor or like his father, another irishman with no job and too many children. he could have been a boxer, maybe-- he was a tall boy, strong and broad-shouldered and no stranger to bruises, broken-bones. he could have peeled a million potatoes and had three times as many beers before dying young in this land of opportunity, with down by the liffeyside on his lips.
Comments 15
he begins with
(and i imagine
never mind Joe agreeably cheerfully remarked when
and ends on
Those final Creatures,-who they are
just as the sun begins to leak through a crack in the thick curtains, threatening just so to penetrate dust and the smoky haze. cancer and sunlight, rhythm and rhymes. morning comes and the house is still with sleep displaced from the surrounding, stirring world. a private place, settling into deceptive slumber as the day seeps over the horizon.
Reply
she is the walrus, koo-koo-ka-choo, and all you need is love when you've got a good joint pressed to your lips and all of eternity spread out in front of you like the biggest water-bed you've ever seen. it's the weed, maybe, the sweet kisses of mary jane and a lingering sugar-taste of chewing gum-- it gets her lazy and liquid, licking the slick white of her teeth and breathing smoke out like dragon's breath.
she thinks she'd like to meet oscar wilde, or the rolling stones. wants to go to jail, or go to paradise, or go sky-diving. naked. or just lay there forever, awake-dreaming of love, peace, and things for lottie moonjava.
Reply
there comes a point when he has to
stop
and think that perhaps it is a little ridiculous-- a little ironic, in a way that might make a person sneer instead of laugh. there isn't much of a point in immortality, not really, if it can't take away the aches and the pangs, the needles and pins, the cold sweat. he'd be embarrassed, maybe, he'd consider the injury to his pride-- his ego, a thing of thick wallets and prada shirts and lilly pulitzer ties-- if he didn't need a fix bad enough to fucking die.
Reply
he could have grown old on tales of the tuatha dé danann and his grandmother's superstitions on the docks by the ocean that separated them from sweet starving airlann. he could have been a butcher or a sailor or like his father, another irishman with no job and too many children. he could have been a boxer, maybe-- he was a tall boy, strong and broad-shouldered and no stranger to bruises, broken-bones. he could have peeled a million potatoes and had three times as many beers before dying young in this land of opportunity, with down by the liffeyside on his lips.
he could have.
Reply
i am, she remarked, prepared now to exist at another wavelength all together.
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