she pretends that she cant write but she can. she makes up the best stories like the one about her being the drug dealer escalade driving hottie knowing full well im the undercover five oh in the mothafuckin hizzy. which one is the red light witch one is the blue light. she is the perfect example of what this auction is all about, but not really. im happy that hers is the link where the winner will be for may, cuz her shit is tight, even if shes not that italian girl in the window.
i want to write as well as raymi with her canadian crypticism. always one step ahead of you. always making more than you. while singing. while dancing. while getting studied. by the xbi. on the beach. on literal lockdown here in the land of the free and home of the brave. poked and probed and examined with electolight and blue uv rays from across the street when she wasnt looking.
i want to be able to tell sex stories like the adultress, but i have this crazy idea that the right people might read this thing on the wrong day and not get me out of this tower, repunzel, and i need them. i need them more than i need to write about the carnal side of this rubiks cube. twist and turn and pull the lever and one day you’ll have cherry cherry plum. spin it again, jackpot cherry cherry. ’round like a record baby. i dont spin enough thats my problem and when i do it isnt the max bet.
the problem with writing on here looking for a luster who wont drive me crazy is old school journalism new school journalism any school journalism just wants the same old bob greene bullshit and they couldnt care less that even though i date the teens he dated the fucking pre teens while being married for like twenty five years and thats who oprah has as an expert on her show. but no, because i push the envelope like every linebreak i get punished. and in a perfect world i would be so honest. and i could pull it off. lord knows i could pull it off.
i saw joyce carol oats at a reading and you think she tells the truth. she doesnt tell any damn truth. kids arent linking her ass on the web. the kids barely link my ass but theyre starting too. and whats fucked up about everything is i have eighteen to thirty four locked in bitches thats whats fucked up. nobody busts with the slow jams the freestyles the freaky deakey around the back through the legs take off from the charity stripe
switch hands slam on my man like your boy. nobody.
which one of those cleancut sellouts change their shit up once a week, invent new rules, turn you on to new girls, brave the new world.
all on a bus.
cut with a cuss.
new york times couldnt pay me enough.
i want to write like bukowski who never knew doubt.
his fingers are the fingers that fingers dream about.