The Propagation

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August 11, 2005

Black Puma Drawers In A Bunch

I sit here with my limptitude hanging out of my metrostilish ([ad?v]lee?) too short black puma drawrs having just learned these (fall, oh, wing) things from a looney thangle called iTunes:
- that right this very (Carnation) instant I’m listening to “Les Nuits,” track 1 off the Carboot Soul album blessedly conjured into this confabulatarianism by Nightmares on Wax to hold hop steady the distinksheon-e of being 1 (yes, numero uno) of my very favorite songs. That last bit part I did not learn from any machine, least of all Stever Jobs, as much respect as I do in fact old for him. [You, too, know of your own-a-chord not to judge a thing by its jewel case; don’t forget it—not with crackheads either, I advocate specifically.] But Steviedream & his grannysmith gang have kindly provided quantification of that dis; the song is numbertoo in my “Top 25 Most Played [songs] list. Sage Francis—that werd[up!][[white]]smith, him—has the lion’s share of the other 25, with Sea Lion taking top dawgone. Alien Sex Fiend make it with several entries, and Radiohead with, too. He tells me also, by virtue of mere list-inclusion—that Kid Loco (hey, speaking of kids, before I forget: I was sure I saw Kid 606 leave Botanica tonight. We’ll get to that in a minute; just hold on.) is certifiably ’90s music. As is Django Reinhardt but I don’t believe it; DJ Hardheart is timeless… And I’m not positive it’s itune’s culpalarity but sometimes after I fire that chromy bitch up I notice there’s suddenly a new (nEmpty) folder in my folder named Jim Morrison - American Prayer. I’m not sure what my prayer says. I hope it’s not American like that dream is, or that one ethos, you know? That one? The one that’s as seemingly impossible a mongrel as one of my two best baby bitches ever. She was a Beagle-Doberman mix—a lot prettier than a paranoid-arrogant mix. Or, would that be arrogant-paranoid?

Yesterday I spent time with a beut not mine. A class-y/-ic goldielocks labbygirl. She barks an unwelcome while I’m still on the other side of the class door waiting for her partner, my friend, to open me in, and then humps me her own doggy style with a twist hump when I’m gettin at the apt-art door to leave. She’s got a wicked side-angle approach; all she lacks is a cane-eyen-ly ergoDnomic strap on.

saw a book at f’s most prepostrously claiming titled thusly .prayer for every ocasion. that’s prepostrous.

at f.’s I happened to notice that I was typing with a stem between fings on left and bigRedBic in the left. that’s so prepostrouser?

State of the Ration:no high, but high maintenance

actually tired now. about to trans-ny into sleeptyping from the mad corresp. days.

took photos yest

feel-ing/t tired, inexplicably miraculous, but also a touch melancholy, not sure why

runninround snappin’ fots of the old ladee’s life. profaning yhr plsvr. tanuyting her to haunt my ass. set me strait and v. disappointed that it’s not happening. I’mean if ever…I’ve been paitent for this for neigh on the second score. i’s my turn. I fart deep into her vari-toned, vari-rivultted gold shag for CRiminy sakes, man! then my stems so minty, when i leave and come back in this rest room homenurse habitrayle it smells like the wholdamn place is minty. at least it’s not plugged from overheat lick whiff vacation!. wouldnt’ be able to get in the door. breath. ah, damn. took shts of xray w huge tu,m or ni found…. fashioning scraperpushercombos (i’m crackhead efficient! [and that’s something, boy]) from her pliers and wire hangers.

then the blinds. uugie water, cabbies, “hope yoru day goes better” sef-richessness on (grand, o.c.) Brooklyn Heights exit.

so dogdog, and layladylay, witwhom at a pt I shoder my porntraption and my purse. hilites. coo.

later back in the badburg, my ol boy almost raped me. He was bitch-bitch bitch. not like the good kind I was talking about befer. so himmy, the soupster, and the ultramate and good to go. noty the candidates, my picks. (hto htese eople rea so guuud so mieai py pls) I stink, besides. I mean it like I’ve meant anything.

dertineces:::
crackbits in the keyboard, crackbits in the shag
ash everywhere
meltquid - like cum stain on my pantalones,

helltheeneces:::
speck of blood on the thumb
bad productive (if you value flegim) cough—what was once a once in a whattle chack-up has become an over and over repeated whole upper body crap up of blackish brackish chunks

hafta hit and hit and have no high, no high. just to keep me dealin’. copin’. not cryin’ & winin’:
all night trying not to slip off to the bathroom too much, walkin’ that card-countin county line
hittin’ up in the street every block
round the corner to beegdoby old housk
couple cops with not a sec too soon timing

Posted by peligrito at August 11, 2005 5:32 AM

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