Authenticate thyself and claim rights to a French throne. Over and above they step in lines that reached the gates of Jerusalem. Self remedy the deepest of the mechanical bullet shedding eyes that behold a tower linked high to heaven and beyond. Art, they called it, then babbled some Portuguese fiction which I clearly understood. I slip into gushing blood, fall and break my skull and then and there elopes my bats and deepest secrets into a scary universe they named life. Rushes the mighty tiger through the fax room, tears apart thy flesh. 'Your heart's delicious', he said, ' Can I have your phone number?'. I ran across the music room intimidated, Van Gogh paintings hanging over all surfaces that are flat. A Venus at the far right corner stood still staring into my eyes, reading my hallucinations, consuming my freudian needs. Shocked, culture and extra voltaged air conditioning, surfed through the room screaming 'Free me from this agonizing sensation of guilty inflammation'. Ignore the door, jump through the glass window, cut yourself and fall. Nothing matters anymore. Venus' said it all. Scrutinize me and protest against every living sense that grows. Patronize yourself for in that curse you revere your deepest affections. Lie not to them, but to those who don't know about the mighty tiger that said to Venus 'He still doesn't know'. Teethfully Venus smiled and said 'He never spoke Portuguese.'

Posted by Яαgιи Яαvєи on Saturday, July 29, 2006 at 7/29/2006 05:26:00 AM | Permalink