JONAS PULIDO VALENTE
Got to punch doen some symbols. Thie vepid transpiration has become the state of affairs, and quite unfortunately free ports are scarce and the will that once made men be kings hasn’t come about yet. Poor Dan O’Reilly. He was my best friend, for a while.
And in the pre morning mist dockside I find a speakeasy so overwhelmed with debt that I even get the chills when the big boats passing under the bridge do their thundering wide horns, like a bellyfilled Southern Minister.
We got to set the pace, the desperate ceiling of Quiet, of a constricted surface.
As tears go by, the Christians dwell less in numbers. I consider myself a observer of the great observed, manifested itself in tem dimentions of the simple laws of physics, you know more than one scent of perfume.
Calamity. Specially in a place where everyone expects a table. Why wouldn’t want one for myself as well?
The cummulative Socratic method of corrupting the youth is in fact what youth desperatly seek. A final release before the boring world of three pointed responsibility.
The allmighty genitals and Thomas Jeffersons, be it monarch in Canada, have seen more action than Lybia. They wipe their pleased face on the napkin of non-tomorrow.
Surviving. Satisfaction.