My work is sui generis, feral, and full of beans, but most importantly it's honest.
Dorothy Parker wrote, while in a suicidal mood, wrote this bit;
Razors pain you,
Rivers are damp,
Acids stain you,
And drugs cause cramps.
Guns aren’t lawful,
Nooses give,
Gas smells awful.
You might as well live.
Deep 6’d, walking, Soi Cowboy going from bar to bar, going to the PUSSY club for a drink, getting a blow job through the glory hole on the bar, just total relief.
I love Angels, most people do.
What about when Angel Girls strip to their bra and panties, offering themselves to guys around, Central Park and The Short Time end were close by.
Yeats, a gay man, believed Angels were transexual, or high-flying faeries, like Ardhanarishvara, a form of Shiva, 50% man and 50% woman.
Come Fairies, take me out of this dull world, for I would ride with you upon the wind and dance upon the mountains like a flame!
In Heaven, Love is the rule, it's a simple way of living, goin from soul to soul, butterfly kissing and then flying to the next shrub.
once aboard it's constant partying with what you desire Saint
Peter's Gate. It's a fun place where your needs are met, mudhouse lined cotton and goat skin, lined with silk
sitting on a cotton floor lined with cushions, eating, and making out a lot.
Scoundrels like Stalin, Saddam Hussien, Pol Pat, Mao Zedong, Gaddafi, The Iceman, Hitler, any of em; don’t go to Heaven. By contrast, their souls evaporate into grains of sand lost in the celestial desert.
Onwards, I couldn't guesstimate how the Rolling Stones do what they do. But I feel the Gods play through them, they invented gunpowder, control the weather and the CIA; their tours are circus-like, goin from town to town, rows of semis, pulling the band's gear from the airport to the stadium while the guys in the band sleep in a suite at a ritzy hotel.
I know fuck all about the Stones, the CIA, or the weather for that matter. I’ve lived in Thailand for 20 years and don’t get the Weather Channel, I’ve never read a spy novel, a Fredrick Forsythe, or a John Le Carre, having no interest in the genre, you'd have to drag me over the coals to read the stuff.
I’ve never met a Rolling Stone, but I met Muddy Waters more than a few times in Chicago blues clubs; he always had a pretty girl on each side while sitting at a table sipping champagne, taking breaks to go to the alley, and blow weed. Man, nobody fucked with him because he was da Buddha.
The only thing I know about the Stones is what I see on TV or computer.
One thing's sure, Jagger/Richards are prolific composers as were and are, Ray Charles, Muddy Waters, Elton John, Miles Davis, Frank Sinatra, and Harry Nilsson.
Elsewhere, red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, and violet ambiance is Astro-traveling through the universe on light beams at 5000 MPH looking like sparks spewed from Roman Candles.
More about me:
Well, I’m a sensitive person, but I've only cried once in my life when my old man Victor Lucowski kicked it, knocked out dead by dick cancer.
I’m overly sensitive to criticism, and nasty looks.
Those who dare give me the evil eye will be reincarnated as a cucarachas in the next life.
I can’t handle being bullied, I shrink at the thought of fighting back, thus, internalizing my angst for days on end, until I feel safe to come out of my hole.
Thus surfacing I sharpen my antennae, walking forward and wavering slightly from side to side.