#418
I remember thinking: boy do I feel Wild at Heart
tonight. What a joke— this horrible Cheltenham
bitch with a huge nose tries to generate an orgy in
her basement. The pot was alright, at least. But
Elkins Park gave us the creeps, and we agreed
afterwards never to go back. The fucked up thing
about that night for me in particular was knowing
we would have fun talking about it forever. And
we have, so I guess it's not a complete dead loss.
The girl I was with pretended I was fucking her, too.
#410
No one who was there that night, high,
hasn't been abased. Wisdom has its
palaces that look more like park benches.
Youth's privilege is to be in love with
life. I was in love with life that night, too—
the crush of strange kids in an Abington
house, movements towards more weed.
We sat on a curb and planned more
mischief. The Universe had some mischief
planned for us, too. For those of us who
live on the curb and nowhere else— a requiem.
You can force your pen into a cat’s anus
for all I care, she told him. October sun-
light hit the grimy pavement as if directed
by Rocky Balboa himself. The Art Museum,
he thinks, is mostly crap but its still imposing—
what man has made of man, fodder for gift-
shops. His working life is a gift-shop too—
no one buys anything. If he did force his
pen into a cat’s anus, they’d probably arrest
him for animal abuse. Maybe he’ll pretend that
she’s a cat. Ring the bell for round two, please.
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