Twice if i was the man i could be.
I'd Still Be Half of What You Need
I'd Still Be Half of What You Need
Saturday, September 22, 2007
Sunday, September 2, 2007
Besty Johnson Diper Bags
wii will not read this one
§
Note: fragments of this text can be read in any order. The reasons for which are reproduced in the following manner are quite arbitrary
Forgetable. U forgettable, as would a civilian.
not remembered with charity # or, much less with rancor.
Since the disappearance, the fact that nobody remembers, it takes extra effort, but in the end leaves you ...
(What's more, I think even when you remembered you were with me)
and spoke as if he were dead. "Oh ... yes ... ... it was so good ..." and little else. Neither
face, or gestures, perhaps even a name.
It became certain, as all hypodermic. At first, discomfort characteristic of a penetration, but the object appears later after inoculation, the remainder of the initial puncture. ******
Then he discovered the grace of the books, there were elements of evasion (something mystical, something unreal, something fantastic, something messianic, mystical thing.) Not even something artistic.
were an extra # to extension of reality, or rather, an abjection of this.
was lived, felt bleeding, the blow to the neck, the dithyramb, which could never be but that is latent when you least think, in a coffee table in a churros cart at a bookstore in the ba # or (preferably by contacting the physiological eschatology, religious or not so).
are lies, with their caps and transvestites colors and faces with smiles scrawled specially for the photo in the Civil Registry and you do not know but your marriage will not last more than a couple of months because the honey will rot and it's like everything but you makin otario as I said someone in one of those abductions that you got the devil, demons insensitive somewhere and some time there in Sumatra Sumeria or perhaps with its beaches and tourist with colorful umbrellas and hats, but even more ridiculous because the Yeti lives in Siberia and you will eat and you'll die and rot you like honey, and established (sic) living on charity, those pennies you think things that serve as blanks or lollipops but NO, because you want to be and be, but people are so morbid scary, because if they can talk about it, that would prevent them from kidnap and kill an Iron Maiden somewhere more or less small plaza # ay bit busy and bury you alive or dead, but it does not matter if you already ousted total to you and your decency and your integrity making you re not least
******
fabling to fart has always no en versos dodecasilabos sino en el mugroso papel del dia a dia, asi la imaginaba.
Oh, princesa de miel, otrora bacheadora de pozos existenciales.
No servia, obviamente.
Para eso habria que usar algo con mayor densidad (a.k.a consistencia): asfalto, por ejemplo; sino, los camiones salpican y, por supuesto, se llena de moscas.
Tan molestas, siempre revoloteando sobre cualquier cosa mas o menos dulce, con toda su inmundicia y sus cientos de ojos y su negrura acrecentada por conceptos adquiridos (sic).
Pensaba que me servia para ser feliz, esa boca de miel. Pasar el dia amandola en frances simulaba una buena forma de vida.
Pero la cursileria.
Pero, As is well known, honey is nothing but vomiting. Vomiting, a symbol. Exactly vomiting, a symbol. Vomiting, but clear, deliciously pure concentrated quintessence a decent selection of Reader's Digest, a paradox, but clear, very clear, a symbol, vomiting. And the French love to that, over a bee that looks like a fly, a foul fly, with its hundreds of eyes and concepts was returning to honey me and the trucks splashed us and we played horns. We hosted the epithets but ... And the flies
overcame me and I had to remove the most gentlemanly as possible trying to save my honor, my good name, my duchy of Worcestershire, the mansion near the lake and its corresponding bridge bascule your ducks-of-gum-it-you could see-that-nice-you-are, but it wanted to see, I never wanted to see because I never # aste accompanied on these trips, it was always just the mouth of honey played be with me but I was there, splashing elsewhere, perhaps were more pathetic than his own, but at least they did not have rubber ducks or knew the vomiting. But there was to be, as yet, so up believing that for a moment and the next callabamos We wore those pants just horrible to say that you are cute and die, we die in the worst aberrations, that which relates to truck drivers epithets ...
§
Note: fragments of this text can be read in any order. The reasons for which are reproduced in the following manner are quite arbitrary
Forgetable. U forgettable, as would a civilian.
not remembered with charity # or, much less with rancor.
Since the disappearance, the fact that nobody remembers, it takes extra effort, but in the end leaves you ...
(What's more, I think even when you remembered you were with me)
and spoke as if he were dead. "Oh ... yes ... ... it was so good ..." and little else. Neither
face, or gestures, perhaps even a name.
It became certain, as all hypodermic. At first, discomfort characteristic of a penetration, but the object appears later after inoculation, the remainder of the initial puncture. ******
Then he discovered the grace of the books, there were elements of evasion (something mystical, something unreal, something fantastic, something messianic, mystical thing.) Not even something artistic.
were an extra # to extension of reality, or rather, an abjection of this.
was lived, felt bleeding, the blow to the neck, the dithyramb, which could never be but that is latent when you least think, in a coffee table in a churros cart at a bookstore in the ba # or (preferably by contacting the physiological eschatology, religious or not so).
are lies, with their caps and transvestites colors and faces with smiles scrawled specially for the photo in the Civil Registry and you do not know but your marriage will not last more than a couple of months because the honey will rot and it's like everything but you makin otario as I said someone in one of those abductions that you got the devil, demons insensitive somewhere and some time there in Sumatra Sumeria or perhaps with its beaches and tourist with colorful umbrellas and hats, but even more ridiculous because the Yeti lives in Siberia and you will eat and you'll die and rot you like honey, and established (sic) living on charity, those pennies you think things that serve as blanks or lollipops but NO, because you want to be and be, but people are so morbid scary, because if they can talk about it, that would prevent them from kidnap and kill an Iron Maiden somewhere more or less small plaza # ay bit busy and bury you alive or dead, but it does not matter if you already ousted total to you and your decency and your integrity making you re not least
******
fabling to fart has always no en versos dodecasilabos sino en el mugroso papel del dia a dia, asi la imaginaba.
Oh, princesa de miel, otrora bacheadora de pozos existenciales.
No servia, obviamente.
Para eso habria que usar algo con mayor densidad (a.k.a consistencia): asfalto, por ejemplo; sino, los camiones salpican y, por supuesto, se llena de moscas.
Tan molestas, siempre revoloteando sobre cualquier cosa mas o menos dulce, con toda su inmundicia y sus cientos de ojos y su negrura acrecentada por conceptos adquiridos (sic).
Pensaba que me servia para ser feliz, esa boca de miel. Pasar el dia amandola en frances simulaba una buena forma de vida.
Pero la cursileria.
Pero, As is well known, honey is nothing but vomiting. Vomiting, a symbol. Exactly vomiting, a symbol. Vomiting, but clear, deliciously pure concentrated quintessence a decent selection of Reader's Digest, a paradox, but clear, very clear, a symbol, vomiting. And the French love to that, over a bee that looks like a fly, a foul fly, with its hundreds of eyes and concepts was returning to honey me and the trucks splashed us and we played horns. We hosted the epithets but ... And the flies
overcame me and I had to remove the most gentlemanly as possible trying to save my honor, my good name, my duchy of Worcestershire, the mansion near the lake and its corresponding bridge bascule your ducks-of-gum-it-you could see-that-nice-you-are, but it wanted to see, I never wanted to see because I never # aste accompanied on these trips, it was always just the mouth of honey played be with me but I was there, splashing elsewhere, perhaps were more pathetic than his own, but at least they did not have rubber ducks or knew the vomiting. But there was to be, as yet, so up believing that for a moment and the next callabamos We wore those pants just horrible to say that you are cute and die, we die in the worst aberrations, that which relates to truck drivers epithets ...
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