Tuesday, February 22, 2011

Velveeta Rotel Pasta Chicken

top of the skull there


I feel, without even seeing her, his hand still crack me up with pain
a sudden, it oppresses my belly
I do not know why the anxiety is decentered
maybe the gut is a bit of brains

he cut the tip of the nail
my skull
he flogs, he scrapes, he plunges
he seeks something, but what?
sifflotte it, it stirs, it dirty

it smells like old soup
soon I open my mouth

he tries something and I

I removes rust



* Well, at one time is important to take the bull by the horns.
I search, yellow pages, doctors, psychiatrists.

type up there in my head, protested: " you will still not see a shrink?! play sports, lazy, good for the anguish "
I reply: "I like to run "
it says me: "eh bin motion you, splashing of a sudden your stress "
I answer: " I hurt my wrist "

Good. I think. Phone, blah blah, go take in in three months.

In the cabinet (three months), I sit. It feels a little sterile. I
cause. I think it works like that, so I question. He listens to me.
He searches her drawer. He pulls out a hand drill.
And now he begins to punch my head.
Juice flows, wets my neck.

stinks soup (confer above)

I protested a little, to form
after all, he knows his job, right?
No?
I look. I begin to distrust.
I'm looking on the shelves behind He dunno, a diploma, Vidal illustrated, a syringe, a stethoscope ... Dunno what, something that proves it is not just a plumber.

Ben is nothing.

Just a fucking hat. Signed
Mylène Farmer, the felt on the visor.
Ca record a hit. I think
:
But it tastes crapper!
And not to cry, I strained my eyes
on her red hair dancing to the rhythm of the crank.

type up there, chuckles.

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