Friday, January 27, 2012

page 110

opening her up a metaphysical poet she is on the front burner the blue is coming out she is overwhelming playing with herself in front of the window it didn’t seem like two hours miss palm thinks she is falling for me she is smoking my last Turkish cigarette she is lots of fucking fun everyday telling them to go suck it she can’t explain how she gets so delusional blaming it on the antichrist she is a different breed always for sale busted piano keys and I liked her better with blonde hair she is waiting for the sun to rise to expose her nakedness between her legs is a heaven and I am converting to her religion I’m beginning to believe in miss palm more and more I think she can walk on water that she can heal my leprous soul bring me some fire in this cold wasteland my oxygen reserves are almost depleted she is creative and inspiring wrapped up in her plastic she is warping my world with her happy birthday wishes the smell of lake water and gasoline I am becoming one of her bad side effects I am sick twisted and decaying living in a small cloud of fear driving down every night to see her behind the garbage can looking up at the big buildings spraying pesticide on the people it is a waltz she is worried about her dream I am watching her over the surveillance cameras I’m not talking about miss palm feeling the Formica I found something at one of her meetings calling the front desk they say that I was never here she was sent here to destroy me there was an angel in the corner reading high times I asked her if she was a model I am proud to be her host her roommate is talking about her how she is a beacon of knowledge I am the man behind her with a passion for the doing a passion for ideas I am diving within her with my passion awakening inside of her a vast reservoir with honesty and integrity a giant ocean of experiences she is sweeping the floor sweeping up the time they want to know if they will ever see agent smith again a change in her voice our deaths have been separated broken opacity the sickness is this life enduring the inanimate it is this one thing nothingness we return to the pot of boiling soup miss palm imagines it to be potato soup I have seen this annihilation miss palm is underneath me holding me up being a foundation I slide inside her the last moment in my time it is a moment without duration an instant an instantaneous cut in the line of time we look forward to seeing your materials will they be in color it isolates me I am looking ahead to see things to see possibilities paths implements obstacles tasks and opportunities to see miss palm in the flesh disrobed of her glamour her witchery and slum godlessness utter impossibility advances toward me illuminating the expanse I wrestle miss palm to the floor and pull the evil out of her with long silver tongs to struggle with the negative is the key to discovering being miss palm looks into the abyss and the nothingness of death gives her new life a purpose for living a reason to climb up onto the pole of anarchy fuck your kings and queens we are selling this life to the junkman he collecting old skulls mine is a little cracked but he still wants it I been using it all these years to hold all of my junk pat and vanna drinking margaritas she turns the letters pat is feeling up the contestants merle haggard is in the hospital someone died today but I can’t remember who stalking me like Heidegger I know they are real because they talk to me I understand them a mobilized power her life is my life that has broken off from me I still can feel her

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