Flèche

خیلی دوست دارم از اون ویدئو مسیجای بی سر و تهم بذارم. اما یکم احساس غریبی می‌کنم.

I

همینگوی می‌خونم و سیگار می‌کشم.

(و من یاد این نوشته افتادم.)

امشب زن همسایه‌مون خودکشی کرد.

Bones, in his falling, must have hit the skin between themselves and stone, but distances of wine were his upholstery against the painful crime of lying in the street, since “God protects them.” He rolled onto his back, his right hand in his fly, and gargled open-mouthed, showing the white of an eye: it did not see the sign raised on the proper air that read: “Here lies a god-damned fool. Beware.” No: his hand, his woman, on the dry root of his sex, debates it: deformed by wine and fantasy, the wreck of infant memory is there, of how the garden gate slammed at the words, “Get out you god-damned bum,” and so he was, since she, goddess, mother, and wife, spoke and it was the fact. Her living hair came out gray in his hand, her teeth went false at his kiss, and her solid flesh went slack like mother’s. “Now, lady, I am sick and out of socks, so save me: I am pure although my hand is on my cock.” Then he could rise up young out of his vagrancy in whole unwilled reform and shuck the fallen one, his furlough in this street redeemed by her grace. There would be the grass to lay her on, the quench of milk behind the taste of wine, and laughter in a dreamed jungle of love behind a billboard that could read: “This is your garden: Please keep it clean.” Portrait against women, Alan Dugan.

No. 2,

Avant de faire un cauchemar. No. 1,

از روزی که این گلدون شیشه‌ای مسخره رو خریدم تا امروز خیلی نگذشته و نمی‌دونم کجا بذارمش، اما بارها به خورد کردنش تو سر بقیه فکر کردم. و حتی به اینکه چطور می‌تونم تیکه‌هاشو جمع کنم و بهم بچسبونم یا حتی به بریدن رگ‌های بنفشم هم فکر کردم. هرچند منظورم واقعا این نیست.