Sex? Drugs? Rock 'n' Roll? Get the book!
I was @ a brunch today (at the house of M. I. Blue with a bunch of the Wordfuck crowd. Wordfuck is a traveling, well-attended spoken-word performance with a rotating cast. I was passing my Alphasmart word-processor around and we came up with the following compilation poem. I think the people involved were Stephen, Tarin, Ann O'Leary and somebody else.
How do you spell peccadillo? How do you walk on ropes without and umbrella tight rope balancer? I lost my heart in Umbra to a Roman god, his name, Hepatitis. His game, fire eating, fire making, lots of heat. Combustibility. The quest for fire in the door
O desire. Red carpet crumbling walls of peel.
The hot wind dried the tears cold on my cheek. My cheek, exploding in fetid pustules, that I popped whenever I got bored.
Rubies that burst into pearls
Strawberries that burst in your mouth
Being one just gets you in the door of my attention. being uniquely, shimmeringly you (a lot to assume from just a walk to the store, but I am a good judge of characters like you.) lets you stay. (hope this isn't too overt to show you this excerpt. don't wanna stomp any boundaries, I ain't that way. I am just assuming that it is O.K., cause you dragged me into an X-rated cake store that I have always feared to enter. );
As we entered father Kastanopolisis' filthy apartment, out eyes were drawn through to the carpet, so warn and ragged it looked like a potato field, lumpy with dirt, lumpy with dark secrets swept beneath. As a tiny fire burned in the corner of the room, two and 1/2 feet to the right of the fireplace. One of Father Kastanopolisis chain-smoked Chesterfields, tat that had hissed the fireplace. Father K. lay dead on the carpet, ancient hero of the Greek Orthodox Church. He had made one last effort to stoke the Fire of Prometheus, his shirt lay open from the waist up, and a small self-inflicted tattoo read ""Nick the Greek sucks."