.35 cents extra for cheese on the ham & egg special. It's always on rye.
Saunter out of the 'King of Smoked Meat' - I don't know what it is, but I feel like a king, I'm hopped up discounted Jack D, hydrogenated vegetable oils, not so kosher salt and the tender lips of potato they've been wrapped around.
With flame-licked black Mexican cowboy boots, tight black jeans, a cheap white shirt scrawled with the words 'Orgasm Addict', motorcycle jacket, and patent leather newsboy cap, I adjust my eyes to the surrounding street.
And at first it's all style over substance, a fashion crazed punk rock surrealist teetotaller nightmare, and I can almost feel the dead tarantula in my belt buckle dance a little on invisible mescal fumes washing up on the Southern winds.
But my pockets are full of weapons - a fully loaded sleek jet black Nikon camera, knock-off Mont-blanc fountain pen & baby moleskine, and a battered mini-disc.
Then like the denouement of a Kenneth Anger wet dream all things drop away and you see the world and yourself as blank slates, you're watching statues so closely that they dance, and for your moment all the geometry has broken apart- you are a complete master of time & space, agony & ecstasy, and you comfortably stroke the soft underbelly of all things.
You'll put these things together in a montage that will tear through the world like a virus, and cast a spell over the world. And a bit of yolk still clings to your tongue.
Saunter out of the 'King of Smoked Meat' - I don't know what it is, but I feel like a king, I'm hopped up discounted Jack D, hydrogenated vegetable oils, not so kosher salt and the tender lips of potato they've been wrapped around.
With flame-licked black Mexican cowboy boots, tight black jeans, a cheap white shirt scrawled with the words 'Orgasm Addict', motorcycle jacket, and patent leather newsboy cap, I adjust my eyes to the surrounding street.
And at first it's all style over substance, a fashion crazed punk rock surrealist teetotaller nightmare, and I can almost feel the dead tarantula in my belt buckle dance a little on invisible mescal fumes washing up on the Southern winds.
But my pockets are full of weapons - a fully loaded sleek jet black Nikon camera, knock-off Mont-blanc fountain pen & baby moleskine, and a battered mini-disc.
Then like the denouement of a Kenneth Anger wet dream all things drop away and you see the world and yourself as blank slates, you're watching statues so closely that they dance, and for your moment all the geometry has broken apart- you are a complete master of time & space, agony & ecstasy, and you comfortably stroke the soft underbelly of all things.
You'll put these things together in a montage that will tear through the world like a virus, and cast a spell over the world. And a bit of yolk still clings to your tongue.
VIEW 10 of 10 COMMENTS
freakpirate:
That normally requires at least one other person.
freakpirate:
A mission for another day. I have a night shift to work tomorrow so the evening is remaining low key.