Friday, January 4, 2013

Telex No.1 (For Ingrid Caven)


'Rinse pig' for the aftermath of terracotta,
a slang flora and fauna 'archi', I saw the
wolf fart on stone wood, and having little
idea of what was destroyed, let the streets
run with wine.

Lemonade gummed 'albin', a kind of prose
poem, but conchier, the 'Kiss dove' eating oysters,
its cafes, transvestites, 'strong bums', everything
that was swallowed by the famous 'hole'
when I look at this photograph.

This language and its greenness, it must be
put into the mouths of the characters entering by
some piss shrine surrounded by crates as
I have often surveyed the 'shooters devil'
replaced by a post-modern décor, coinchée
in the novel a forgotten day up near unique
exhibitions gives the recipe the other
champion of go who occupies a territory
extension, what would be called a boss
'octopus white' conquering the need
to be put into a pot.

A 'Rastignac dressed in leatherette'
discovers the capital, and love with-
out doing doesn't seem bad, I seek in
vain the entry 'ham' in the Dictionary
of pornography, it wants to be super-
baroque, super-churrigueresque, and
even more convoluted than the rococo
eradicating moss and needles worrying
the cave of the unconscious' irrational
and spitting mouth of the allegorical
monster lion, each house has at least
one reproduction of this scandalous
tragic angelus, the 'wheel baron' of
Millet to satisfy the theory of 'rooting',
mining its cushioned aisles, skiddish
at the unlikely presentation of a
faux and forking stick, freedom's
collossus, hung with the yellowed
mundillo of the politics of civilization.

The wrong crowd is a drag.
Santa Claus has blue eyes, I
noticed today, flipping through.
I still remember the strange
manuscript, made ​​of several
layers of glued paperoles. It
was large and full of nooks
and crannies. The singer
was there, but the band
did not seem ready.
Through the windows
we could see in the
distance the sea.
The sun was red.
It would be.