Sick hammers a nail through his penis as an argument with death. Everyone wants a piece of the hardest working author in the Lower East Side. He makes every party, he cuts his own hair, he is loved by all. Love isn't a box of money. The subway lunges forward at every stop.
Coffee spills all over the cuffs.
The cheap suit doesn't fool anyone, then again you can fool a fool. Civil disobedience enlightens the Bronx in the face of city hall's arrogance. A score of bullets deposited in the flesh of the peddler passed off as routine policing flashes the underbelly of the war on the quality of life. The quality of life is inundation. Drunk on wine her brain makes acid and her hand makes a pass, locking her forearm through the triangle made by my arm on my hip.