How Long Is Plan B In Your System

To make infinite life or shit. The history of the fight.

disease of writing catches you off guard, makes you run there on the blank page before you leave your thoughts ostruisca le vie del ricordo e trascolori tutto in un vagheggiato entusiasmo già smarrito. Ti manderà una cartolina nella notte il tuo cervello con quello che avevi formulato e che la giornata ha sbiancato.

Brezza marina qui nel covo candido del lunedi, partendo dai punti in-fermi d'un mondo sempre più immondo, tra le turbe intestinali e la stitichezza espressiva del XXI secolo. Com'è triste la carne, eppure è tutto ciò che cerchiamo.

Scrivere scopare viaggiare secondo Bolano in punto di morte conferenziere in volo sui poeti francesi. Banditi del senso. Banditi dal senso. Inattingibili. Ogni volta diversi.

L'Italia va a puttane, si sa, e noi ci accasciamo lentamente nella fatica mal vista d'accorgercene. Le sante le più bunga bungabili, misere le cortigiane di palazzo, in cerca di opportuna sistemazione e collaborazioniste non meno d'altre già giustiziate a loro tempo. I criminali senza fascino né pretese.

E poi ora per noi in coro Lele Mora prega per noi, meno male che Lula c'è estradate Berlusconi se volete Battisti in cambio.

È Dioniso a vincere in quest'aria fetida da basso impero? O è ancora – ritrovando l'Attali di Bruits – una quaresima camuffata da carnevale? Una rigorosa farsa atta semplicemente all'omeostasi del potere declinante? Apollo è malato, pie, leafless, including bad habits almost always gratified, but in this triumph of Bacchic unrepentant island lacks scrambling missing subversion, the role reversal. We remain below, sodomized, and hung reverently to the wishes or opinion of s'arroga count, whose identity is still (what?) That fills their pockets.

Gaudeamus igitur yet parfois j'amerai mourir pour ne plus rien savoir.

And the tiredness comes as an obstacle course involving my alter ego before you reach the Metateatro tonight ... three hundred steps from my extreme hanging up, a train that does not reach there because of snow Viterbo 907 of a path which is charging my memory resident Montemarano from Piazza Igea, the bar with attractive Barbone, the bus stop in front of the pharmacy and then the stairs to the metro Cyprus where I once almost broke my ankle and there is no time to go before I exit the train and if I give a shrug because there is more delicate and answer me if I tell you Porca Madonna and proceed forward, right down to St. Peter waiting for a 23 that does not pass, the cold hands in his pockets in the head late presses his belly paws. Then, almost running in heels hitting the ground, punching, cutting off the city's Conciliation and fishing the top 23 in the rump of the Tiber with the same faces that took cold in my company minutes before ...

And before I rang, only to eat kibble. And how does that star in a mini-pants and flip flops today on the fields when the salt is there to witness the zero degrees?

and then dividing up where we started,

Write

before they get you for making too much noise, for wanting too much, too little fun for signing up for having too many trees shook with certainty, for defaming too many monuments, for having desecrated unceremoniously. Write

before they get you for not being able to (r) exist, defaulting in this difficult and fraught with social building. Poor art arte povera.

Write before you turn off the light, light as the light that allows you to access elsewhere. Write

before they come to take you for permission to write. Inspiration in the conspiracy.

sproloquianti Iene Quentin Tarantino to introduce the pseudo-liturgical cloth irreverent, mocking the blasphemy of every communion or communication possible. With Artaud shit to be among the metastasis of language. Sick, broken, corroded, the point of death.

so dis-organized as we are and yet still provided those bodies that meet our vital malfunctions. Led (or led?) Anal point. Still dall'escatologia the scatology, the ultimate fate remains to terminals, including the sewers ready to dive. De process.

And instead to do away with the opinion of tall and dwarf, not yet reconciled to cut the reins and roots. Unmasking: write, fuck, travel, die. And then start again.

hell, a winter, a sick man. You do not get anywhere. Only a few lights now and then. Very rare and adamantine soul as tired and yet more elusive charm which now supervise the flashing green near the entrance.

And St. John for 87 hours. For my house just feet. Impressions for the next week yet.