lam.also.can.blog

Gold is some sad assertion you mingled with love. Gold is a relationship in binary math. Gold are the songs you sang softly in the back seat. Gold was somewhere I kept secretive in your view. Gold is the reason why. Gold is desecrated petrol to amuse you. Gold is talking, talking, talking. Gold are tears you left for me in a tissue paper. Gold is alien conversations with petite phases of mirth. Gold was the last dinner with understanding portions of champagne. Gold is the paper thin upper lips you shared with me. Gold are the holes to Córdoba. Gold is the silhouette flirting with my hair in the chilly morning breeze. Gold are the words that blister my faith every time I let my eyes close. Gold was intently you as an imaginary acquaintance I once knew. Gold is good memories I keep in my cigarettes.

A glass that I’ve been watering, nobody could say that it’d be a girl. I gave them a seamless smile. The tourists that ask for another racist comment, hey, I paid too. So thirtsy. So thirsty. Where could you end up? Inter-glacial love. I took up wine to read on your emotions. Dispositions. Good natured. All on the covers, all inside sorted disappointments, clinging on words of so-so. Pushing buttons, the telephone cord that’s almost sentimental. Sometimes sparkling. They’re wondering if it’s helpless and it’s a good waste of water. You know where to find them? The change is under the nail clipper. Repeat after me. Pilot them back cause I’ve neglected the glass that I’ve been watering. Too fanatical, everything that has to be saved. My broken eye, you could come back to swathe it with some soft facial tissue. That would be nice. That would be pleasant. That would be good. That would be polite. That would be fine…

Been emotionally detached? Nécessitant l’air frais? Nécessitant le numéro deux? Do you want to share? Ma bulle est assez grande… my bulle. More? Gravy? La sauce au jus est amour. Could you call me? Ask questions. Matters. Quelque chose que votre bouche s’ouvre à. Désolé, démuni de I été moi-même récemment. It could have been the fever. The mild disease and ½ Polarine. Been seeing silhouettes? N’ignorez pas. N’ignorez pas. N’ignorez pas. Désolé, it was me but I hadn’t notice. I was leaning while you were breathing in untitled rays of superstar vibes and false amity. Its good food that we can’t refute.

(a) home is a comfort-full commodity you took advantage of.

(2) write your own sequel, lovely bookshelves, lovely friendlessness…

(c) don’t die, don’t kill me either
its all not happening…
(d) "Can’t we take a cab?" "Why don’t you take me out?" "That will help you keep fit." said the

celestial stranger in his space-helmet. "You will have to pronounce it correctly first, Sir…"

I could hide, I could hide in the queries of your palms. I’m not afraid of this land between the scalpel and your face.  You’re guilty cause the references told me to forgive, if I ever did see whatever you did. I’ve got an implantable cardioverter defibrillator inserted in my chest, so I’m almost bulletproof. I could hide, I could… and sew a white fabric patch on all your failed attacks.

Susan’s on the tele spinning depressing narratives and the city girls’ verdict for another motherfucker to exit into jail. Runny nose in nice clothes, lethargy when you put it together with pills. Its awful sounding interest in the city, and my dithering is a woman. Too much cocoa, too many cigarettes. A pack in private three-walled rooms and a microphone that’s decidedly static. It’s the heart that the mind has halved, its karaoke when it’s already raining…   

1. lodge complaint against corridor’s juvenile delinquents.

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3. fix cerebral state, note: UHU glue won’t work
4. thank rain…

crazy, crazy superior shit. fucking brilliant. fucking brilliant.

and you sang to keep me warm… this song, puts me at ease with pain.

they came, in white shirts and rubber gloves and lucky was playing in the background… there were, children by the hydrants, and your knees were in my view… I’m hungry, and bleeding on grey-bricked tarmac, while I try to buy time with sleep… where’s Sarah? what happened to my face? where’s Sarah? where’s this place? white shirts, rubber gloves and a life support, with this particular song… I’m okay, as long as Sarah says its going to be alright, but it hurts like hell… right now, I feel closer to the moon than you…