Brecht and Brach
(Feb 02/06)
A cold Sartrean day, dogsbodies everywhichwhere: and me, like some Brechtian antihero, recreating the primal scene, just for the lark of it, no nothing more. I drink water like it’s going out of style, unfashionable and passe. Never was one for Rum and trope, too salty and syntactical. Herman knew tics, or some such nonsense. Achley had a scalpful of ‘em, crawly little bastards, crumbing up his skulkcap. Hoyden throwing it to his Alma Mommy Mater, the old ‘in and out’, as the old lactose tolerant Alex was a prone to do. Fucking scurvy world we live in, syphilitic and allsorts, not a span-mixture in the lot. Me mom’s doughy fingered whist-partners pocketing fistful’s of the polychromatic ones, the ones that look like beach sandals. I promised myself I would get to bed earlier tonight. I am a promise breaker, a mountebank and a palter, a skinflint, a jackofnotrades. I’ve been meaning to read Peter Weiss’ ‘Bodies and Shadows’. Maybe perhaps I will. Too much He’d, Joyo, Fred, and whoever, has made me a knotty boy indent. Gods’night and Oyo to the lot of you, and then sun.
A cold Sartrean day, dogsbodies everywhichwhere: and me, like some Brechtian antihero, recreating the primal scene, just for the lark of it, no nothing more. I drink water like it’s going out of style, unfashionable and passe. Never was one for Rum and trope, too salty and syntactical. Herman knew tics, or some such nonsense. Achley had a scalpful of ‘em, crawly little bastards, crumbing up his skulkcap. Hoyden throwing it to his Alma Mommy Mater, the old ‘in and out’, as the old lactose tolerant Alex was a prone to do. Fucking scurvy world we live in, syphilitic and allsorts, not a span-mixture in the lot. Me mom’s doughy fingered whist-partners pocketing fistful’s of the polychromatic ones, the ones that look like beach sandals. I promised myself I would get to bed earlier tonight. I am a promise breaker, a mountebank and a palter, a skinflint, a jackofnotrades. I’ve been meaning to read Peter Weiss’ ‘Bodies and Shadows’. Maybe perhaps I will. Too much He’d, Joyo, Fred, and whoever, has made me a knotty boy indent. Gods’night and Oyo to the lot of you, and then sun.
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