#1977 #AmericanWriters #LoveIsADogFromHell
here comes the fishhead singing here comes the baked potato in dra… here comes nothing to do all day l… here comes another night of no sle… here comes the phone wringing the…
are we going to the movies or not? she asked him. all right, he said, let’s go. I’m not going to put any pan ties… so you can finger-fuck me in the
Lydia liked parties. And Harry was a party-giver. So we were on our way to Harry Ascot’s. Harry was the editor of Retort, a little magazine. His wife wore long see-through dresses, show...
schoolgirls in pantyhose sitting on bus stop benches looking tired at 13 with their raspberry lipstick. it’s hot in the sun
in grievous deity my cat walks around he walks around and around with electric tail and
another bed another woman more curtains another bathroom another kitchen
I see you drinking at a fountain w… blue hands, no, your hands are not… they are small, and the fountain i… where you wrote me that last lette… I answered and never heard from yo…
Later in the hospital they were dabbing at my knees with pieces of cotton that had been soaked in something. It burned. My elbows burned too. The doctor was bending over me with a nurse...
it is not very good to not get through whether it’s the wall the human mind
she died of alcoholism wrapped in a blanket on a deck chair on an ocean steamer.
I’m not going to die easy; I’ve sat on your suicide beds in some of the worst holes in America,
she was in her orange Volks waitin… as I walked up the street with 2 six packs and a pint of sco… and she jumped out and began grabbing the beerbottles…
like the fox run with the hunted and if I’m not the happiest man on earth
Go to Tibet. Ride a camel. Read the Bible. Dye your shoes blue. Grow a Beard.
she writes continually like a long nozzle spraying the air,