From where I’m sitting, in the 10:30 twilight,palm fronds mock cathedral arches.And cherry-chlorine vapours play like fireflies, beamed up an indifferent street light. Lindsay Taylor, in her one piece glory,lies belly-down on blue mesh beside me.Forearm pressed against warm Rothko makeup,the bug eyes she never grew into,the blue hair she’s growing out to black.There’s mono…

“My chair shrieks beneath me; my skull is granite in my hands.”

“and so the next logical step would be to crucify the lord in a parking lot— no need for mountainous splendor or a wad of olive branches”

“The uterus kicks, the timer is done, and now it is wailing for our mother.”

“Today, a nasty type achieved beauty in cotton pants, a birthday hat, and a tubercular sweat.”

“If we look close enough, we will see that it is your skin that I am tasting, it is certainly not my own, not on top of everything else I have to hold;”

“The centre itself is the vapid, porous edge of each day Passing into itself into itself into itself,”

“All the while, madness becomes bloated, and juts out from the soul.”

“Here is a yell that means I’m hungry. Here is an inheritance. Here is desperately filling every emptiness.”