#1977 #AmericanWriters #LoveIsADogFromHell
listen, man, don’t tell me about t… sent, we didn’t receive them, we are very careful with manuscrip… we bake them burn them
the dead can sleep they don’t get up and rage they don’t have a wife. her white face like a flower in a closed
Cecelia sat and watched us drink. I could see that I repulsed her. I ate meat. I had no god. I liked to fuck. Nature didn’t interest me. I never voted. I liked wars. Outer space bored m...
dying for a beer dying for and of life on a windy afternoon in Hollywood listening to symphony music from m… on the floor.
Lydia and I were always fighting. She was a flirt and it irritated me. When we ate out I was sure she was eyeballing some man across the room. When my male friends came by to visit and ...
and so we suck on a cigar and a beer attempting to mend the love
I sit here on the 2nd floor hunched over in yellow pajamas still pretending to be a writer.
I pick up the skirt, I pick up the sparkling beads in black, this thing that moved once around flesh,
terrible arguments. and, at last, lying peacefully on her large bed which is spread in red with cool patterns o…
have we gone wrong again? we laugh less and less, become more sadly sane. all we want is the absence of others.
I cut the middle fingernail of the… finger right hand real short and I began rubbing along her cunt
There was a gang of us down there. 150 or 200. There were tedious papers to fill out. Then we all stood up and faced the flag. The guy who swore us in was the same guy who had sworn me ...
The ex-Japanese wrestler who was into real estate sold Lydia’s house. She had to move out. There was Lydia, Tonto, Lisa and the dog, Bugbutt. In Los Angeles most landlords hang out the ...
welcome to my wormy hell. the music grinds off-key. fish eyes watch from the wall. this is where the last happy shot… fired.
Nothing matters but flopping on a mattress with cheap dreams and a beer as the leaves die and the horses d… and the landladies stare in the ha…