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Jul 1, 2006
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I drink coffee and write poetry. Coffee and poetry are like twins.

Sculptures of Pleasure
By Wolf Larsen

She looked at me, but there were eyes all over your tongue and your mouth became the new york subway system, she knew I lived in the planet of graveyards, that’s when I shot myself, the surrealists were digging graves, the cubists were re-inventing cities into seas of angles that ate your body, the impressionists were looking for the third rail and then decided to eat buildings, she knew I lived in a twisting spiraling building with 5-foot censored growing out of the walls, I tried to talk to her but construction workers kept erecting walls between us until my censored started growing with carcasses, that’s when all the unstable eyes begin to perverse my brain and a river of fragmented damaged people were devouring subway tracks until your skin started to crack open and paintings leaked out of your corpse until you mind became a volcano of poetry, that’s why everyone tied nooses around their necks and started jumping, otherwise there wouldn’t be happiness, you slid your -----------------------censored--------------------------------- until he smiled, florescent lava drips from all our procreations until our withered corpses lay in caskets, gravestones are sculptures of pleasure
Copyright ã 2004 by Wolf Larsen. All Rights Reserved.

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