Parts 1-6 of My Reinterpretation of Procopius's The Secret History
Grainy Operation Overlord memories pressed to flesh mop McDonald's.
Crusty discarded catsup hands, pink, supple coca-cola palms repulse_
paralyzed nostrils, runner's stare, took Normandy,
seen people sliver on a track to stop a radioactive locomotive_
like a fake wang in a nature film.
Now HQ's invested in making you a side quest of suffering,
no guitar hero to hold you back, strings snap and you fall into a pile of puke_
a genuine southern comfort. I saw this movie with my girlfriend,
when Walther Matthau's cave eyes tided up in Faure's piano quartet
I took my stuffed childhood animals and made monstrous memories and I cried again
flubbed up, afeared, fucking mortified, scared of dying so she and I fucked positionally_
plasma wands on a taut bed, she was a lady Godiva in clouds
and I sell comedies door to door.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
The lightning baked gingerbread men
toss haute couture from Istanbul upon a railway platform
and Costanstinople groans under so many halter tops.
Crisp stalks of sunlight in a sea salt salsa,
if you pull back far enough make the fuzzy outline of a heap of broken destroyers
as we cross leg over leg on your beach towel making warped love faces.
"You son of a bitch!" Slaps his face with a frying pan.
"Stay with me now! you can't put us in a little case called meanwhile
and then reminisce about the two of you naked somewhere else
having eye sockets filled with star sparks, speaking by blinking."
Because it is hard, difficult even, to tie the heart in a windsor knot
when your arms are an ash sweater from the forge of Mt. Vesuvius.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
5:30 AM, a Val Lewton film,
she smokes a Parliament
in a yellow screened American Apparel tee
on a former street on which you both lived_
gasoline boar traps stained on a gray construction paper
which she cuts out apartments, parking lots, trees, fire hydrants,
and windows with mouths the size of fists from love,
Mayan glyphs of love combusting everywhere, your Rolex by it,
big bouncing butts regular as Big Ben, chiming,
"my_anaconda_don't_want_none_unless you got buns_hon."
A Siberian huskie spits up his broccoli apertif with a superdeformed grimace.
DO NOT WANT
That's no way to stay captain of the basketball team,
I had a war to fight, smokes to puff, and a degree to get.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
Wrap it in lead, dead as a head in bed, my penis of a thesis.
The stripper poles gelatin to the artillery drums of Metallica's "One."
Can I touch you with my atomic suit?
My hand reaches through your freckled electrons to your apartment across the street.
Property values have risen in the last decade, I can't move back.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
Haroun Al Raschid drives his Rolls-Royce Phantom Two,
30 horsepower six cylinder engine with Stromberg Downdraft carburetor.
The skulls of poets and car mechanics piled up and the blood pooled.
If anything goes wrong, she will be my constant.
He makes a tire print in a Model T on the bride's train_
her suicidegirl death's head garters as she falls to the ground.
Heaven on the Moon. Check. Affairs in order? Check.
Kiss your ass goodbyle. Check frakkin' check,
waiting here with my wife and kid slashfaced dark
on the heliport, the suitcase handle in my hand
as the last screwdriver I will ever have pisses away.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
If the internet feed's ready I've a massive handjob opportunity
with at least three openings and one's handpicked for a redhead,
one for a blonde, and one for someone exotic and historic.
I was in Basketball class and in the locker room
there was an archipelago of cum congealing on the floor.
Pope John Paul the Two was an Icon with cracking wood shutupped.
For once, right? I was like, super impressed with myself, like a showgirl
with a big feather coming out of her ass_I chop down Mount Rainier
with the air blade of my chapped hand.
And there I was, for a season a lucid hustler, a Johnny-on-the-spot,
nipple singer freshly CPAP'ed with a mirror shard out of crystal meth.
Unpossible! an expert-for-hire debating if someone was good enough
to get into heaven (to get into my pants) if they had to be Catholic, if_
The motion carried with three dissenting.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
Grainy Operation Overlord memories pressed to flesh mop McDonald's.
Crusty discarded catsup hands, pink, supple coca-cola palms repulse_
paralyzed nostrils, runner's stare, took Normandy,
seen people sliver on a track to stop a radioactive locomotive_
like a fake wang in a nature film.
Now HQ's invested in making you a side quest of suffering,
no guitar hero to hold you back, strings snap and you fall into a pile of puke_
a genuine southern comfort. I saw this movie with my girlfriend,
when Walther Matthau's cave eyes tided up in Faure's piano quartet
I took my stuffed childhood animals and made monstrous memories and I cried again
flubbed up, afeared, fucking mortified, scared of dying so she and I fucked positionally_
plasma wands on a taut bed, she was a lady Godiva in clouds
and I sell comedies door to door.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
The lightning baked gingerbread men
toss haute couture from Istanbul upon a railway platform
and Costanstinople groans under so many halter tops.
Crisp stalks of sunlight in a sea salt salsa,
if you pull back far enough make the fuzzy outline of a heap of broken destroyers
as we cross leg over leg on your beach towel making warped love faces.
"You son of a bitch!" Slaps his face with a frying pan.
"Stay with me now! you can't put us in a little case called meanwhile
and then reminisce about the two of you naked somewhere else
having eye sockets filled with star sparks, speaking by blinking."
Because it is hard, difficult even, to tie the heart in a windsor knot
when your arms are an ash sweater from the forge of Mt. Vesuvius.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
5:30 AM, a Val Lewton film,
she smokes a Parliament
in a yellow screened American Apparel tee
on a former street on which you both lived_
gasoline boar traps stained on a gray construction paper
which she cuts out apartments, parking lots, trees, fire hydrants,
and windows with mouths the size of fists from love,
Mayan glyphs of love combusting everywhere, your Rolex by it,
big bouncing butts regular as Big Ben, chiming,
"my_anaconda_don't_want_none_unless you got buns_hon."
A Siberian huskie spits up his broccoli apertif with a superdeformed grimace.
DO NOT WANT
That's no way to stay captain of the basketball team,
I had a war to fight, smokes to puff, and a degree to get.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
Wrap it in lead, dead as a head in bed, my penis of a thesis.
The stripper poles gelatin to the artillery drums of Metallica's "One."
Can I touch you with my atomic suit?
My hand reaches through your freckled electrons to your apartment across the street.
Property values have risen in the last decade, I can't move back.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
Haroun Al Raschid drives his Rolls-Royce Phantom Two,
30 horsepower six cylinder engine with Stromberg Downdraft carburetor.
The skulls of poets and car mechanics piled up and the blood pooled.
If anything goes wrong, she will be my constant.
He makes a tire print in a Model T on the bride's train_
her suicidegirl death's head garters as she falls to the ground.
Heaven on the Moon. Check. Affairs in order? Check.
Kiss your ass goodbyle. Check frakkin' check,
waiting here with my wife and kid slashfaced dark
on the heliport, the suitcase handle in my hand
as the last screwdriver I will ever have pisses away.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
If the internet feed's ready I've a massive handjob opportunity
with at least three openings and one's handpicked for a redhead,
one for a blonde, and one for someone exotic and historic.
I was in Basketball class and in the locker room
there was an archipelago of cum congealing on the floor.
Pope John Paul the Two was an Icon with cracking wood shutupped.
For once, right? I was like, super impressed with myself, like a showgirl
with a big feather coming out of her ass_I chop down Mount Rainier
with the air blade of my chapped hand.
And there I was, for a season a lucid hustler, a Johnny-on-the-spot,
nipple singer freshly CPAP'ed with a mirror shard out of crystal meth.
Unpossible! an expert-for-hire debating if someone was good enough
to get into heaven (to get into my pants) if they had to be Catholic, if_
The motion carried with three dissenting.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX