I am currently intrested in the parrallels between american culture and the inchoate fundamentals of early twentieth century facism. The small fungi that i have been collecting and eating (no not the funny ones) gnoccies and gargonzolla, marscapone, organic everything once in and once out. the crazy old lady next door who wakes me up every morning talking to her cat and looks like a charechter from the dark crystal. humidity and barometric pressure. masterbaiting while smelling my own underpants (its the best part about beeing a hot boy and wearing underpants) painting pretty pictures. imagining the lives of people i dont know but have more intersting lives than myself. the popculture pandemic. some semblance of sobriety. the tuscan countryside, the slow food movement, and lovers.
Everyone who is wearing smart bowties in winter time with white shoes, french cuffs and a serious case of b.o. covered with the smell of eu de toilet. people with huge breasts so big they cant possibly be real. Small indiginious peoples who can dance jigs with me untill sun rise when they decide to cook me and serve me with a salad garnished in a light balsamic dressing. russians in large fur overcoats to do pulaties with me.
god bless nina simone, ertha kitt, and buddy holly
my own movie that i live every day, the ones that i think up every minute and the ones that the people around me are living.
kill your tv
jean genet is my new lover, walt whitman banged one out in my hands last night, and emily dickenson snuffed me in her muff the night before.... Would you like to lick my bronze eye, henry miller and annis nin did, in tandum.
Kill Your Idols