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Waking up feeling as sore as a prison bitch, I sit behind my computer with no words floating in my weary head. I wonder the various fascinations happening in contemporary music today: D’Angelo has a demo leaked of his neo soul take on Soundgarden’s “Black Hole Sun”; Feist has a video online of her beating up a piñata while her band gleefully plays “November Rain”; Jay-Z is recording songs with his newborn… shit, what’s next – is Iggy Pop gonna do Grace Jones. Oh wait…
Here’s an oldie but a goodie (’77):
Since I’m not going to write anything new today, I feel like extricating that pressure from myself by throwing up something discarded. Enjoy it while I find out the nutrition facts on this whiskey bottle. Going Faulkner-sober for a month tomorrow to get back to form.
fuck
She was dressed for a nuanced demise or a divorce
fitted in looming elegance
Her seductive eyes were full of acrimony
and glorification for a mute god
I stuck around because I could
because I had nowhere else to be
because she was better than alone
Now she strips and ripens
the last drop of Campari
a touch of gin
She grows like monotony
becoming my Amazonian sedative
my last cigarette in a happy family
Her hips walked to the bed like saxophone notes
as complimentary as exploitation
and I found myself unfulfilled
just as she expected
as meaningful as a prayer at an RNC convention
no more honey for your tea, darling
this is, after all, the desinence
you can find all the evidence you need
in her sleeping breath
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Tags: ...and also Andrey Bystrov can go fuck himself, Iggy, Writer's Block
