And when he dreamed, his dremas were glass col’t.
The tinkling of haus nails raining on cement floor.
The pale fist, its smooth proximal phalanx flush against pale cheekbone
and the cervical nostril snowing cocaine out into the exterior much like a slush’chopping snowblower
his Soul was pure Agency and blessed were the surrogate…
from brot ghetto to primrose private school & its sour milk odor of educational books
Was London inside of New York or was New York the baby of London he wondered?
He felt as young as any ageless thing and Always cold as a heisted Diamond but he wanted sex but Sex Stung.
It even stung to touch cheekbones with the other alligators as he called them…
Touch made the mind recoil and it sounded like people breaking music into digital bits, so he Always kept his distance. Food was for poison, chemical was for food, money was the music of glass bottles and the neck was where they killed you first if you left it open for mitts or confessions. His world was concrete, powder, jelly \ putty and glass money. His dreams were his living and his living was strictly stang.
God is Kamera, Milk is Dead blood and all animals were nothing more than warmth phantoms. Would it always be this way he wondered?
Probably not. After all… his name was Wade Monthly.