The real fraud is that line between reality and dreaming. You lose your breath both in the cold and of the mind, but one thing’s for SURE: “What did you say? ‘Cause I definitely remember differently.” Caked layers of dust upon imagery that may have happened, but where were we, you know? That area of me to you? We won’t escape the “Slumtown Symfunny” together without clothing. Or hysteria in the name of clapping louder than flailing out around the edge of town. Hysteria. More like a buddy-cop movie that is searching for meaning in the meandering. A big magnifying glass. Mom jeans. The apartment key around your neck: it’s purple.
“C L E A N E R S must’ve been here,” you said while wiping your index finger across Real Raga Shit left stuck to the ground. My sweater up against your jeans — now, knelt — and the shoreline is waving in ice upon the sand. The chill numbs all -teriors. Feeling this far from the opposite [diagonal south] seeps in the harshness of “Tijuana Blues.” What does it mean to be alive and a human being? It’s the pinnacle of civilization to build your hair back from bald into a fucking mow-hawk. Fake hair found at the scene between you and her; me and she; them; they all in on this: one way or another. Flex the flow of existence below: