1 May 2012
Grab your camera bag, We're going hunting. Sloping down avenues, tethered To rusted clouds and distant stars.
The freakshow frets forever, all furrowed furs and frothing fallopians, Its ghastly gallows gangrene growing, glowing In golden Gomorrah.
You can hang one on me, friend. Turn the tables and the screw and the new leaf and the worm in its grave. Take as long as you like, friend. To pull focus and rank on these shore-sod streets.
"Get on with it," she begged. "My parking's not going to last forever."
The Bitching Hour • Opuss № I