gamuk is kissing gamagunaga

noises downstairs, the remnants of an old birthday party where karaoke had smacked heads and hands, dipping, scattered tunes, now green, gray i'm out to sea blowing in -the _wild form cos nothing contains what i want to say, explosions beyond confines of a novel.

robbed tonight, sleep penetrating after a bender, slinking around the city, whiskey in the jukebox bar, a beer, too, strong and thirsty, covered with buds and blossoms, cowboys and girls spiked -wait- impaled against the redbrick night - your heart is wild and you know it does grow.

the feeling of october, whereby dreams right now of a big breakfast in a hardscrabble diner on the outskirts of town, the waitress with red lips, smeared a bit clocked in at the corner of her lips accentuating her sweet drawl and honeylike pleasantries - gary flirts, having already completed a job already that morning (after his coffee and joint and a big stretch, a quick quip to nobody particular), feeling proud and young. the air is crisp, and now we're getting down to business.

pancakes with blueberries, warm maple syrup - the kind dripping from trees on the vermont roadside. splendors of bacon and sausage, big cuts of home fries sizzled from golden potatoes, boston eclairs and deepdishstrudels, coffee fractioning of milk and sugar, the counter reflects heaven, dreaming of fresh powdered warm cookies.

drowsy sleep descends like a coarse fog.