TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER
an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
& other curiosities :: elsewhere :: profile
09.18.02, wednesday noon
Unseen at the warehouse while I scritch-scratch, old skin flaking over magazine late, late evening: classical piano notes sneaking snakily through grassy thought, scattering the corpses of mice, which will be found in the morning by girl (ahem, I) screaming like a hair-in-curlers housewife mid-telephone call. If I was a smoker, I woulda gasped for a cigarette. Marlboros, anyone?