2008-09-12 - 11:13 a.m.

Woken up after the alarm due to Frank Sinatra's lengthy explanation of the Laughodils in Spring, and although it made sense I'm quite sure he was making it up. Meanwhile the Muse has been sleeping on too many mis-made couches, bunching white panties between her thighs like cotton kisses, drinking iced passion on porches that haven't quite passed for summer this year. The girls from the boneyards still speak a language I half understand and I get tangled in their babblings they strew like ribbons across evening stairs, evening's stars. Dear Art is quite insane with his search for the sacred prostitute and the roller-coaster of his poetry makes my head spin. I've broken too many taboos to turn around and repentance isn't hard-wired in my genetics. The ape descendants are furious that all the viral mommies are stumbling out of the closet and usurping their lineage. All our crowned monkey kings brought low by those insouciant little graffiti artists of the cells. Next, the Big Bang, and not over Helsinki but in darkened lofts that will be childrens' beds but on that moonlight night we and the raccoons are but animals following the instinct of want. All this being bent over without breaking, unless like waves, unless like barriers.

ulterior motives - fortune telling