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TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER

an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
& other curiosities :: elsewhere :: profile


06.10.03, midnight

Bare feet ache. Low lamplight flickers. Tall thin man shuffles painted paper. Svendhardt's raisin snail aroma slips through window screen. The fingers of a dead man tickle piano keys. Sleepless factory purrs. Star-flecked plane dips. Truck rumbles. At midnight, in West Oakland. Where Jimmy and I fight, fuss, fuck, cook, laugh, write, read, paint, clean, listen, not-listen, set the dream machine to eight a m, shut-eye, dream, wake to do it all again.




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