Bernardino Femminielli Plaisirs Américains

[Mind; 2016]

Rating: 4/5

Styles: seduction, en’chanteur, broke yé-yé
Others: Nicolas, Russian Tsarlag, Dirty Beaches, Angels in America

And the whole thing started out in the alleyway.
The shadow cascaded upon the alleyway.
Echoing tunneled in from the city like a symphony.
An incantation charming the brick alleyway.
Not West Side Story, but *covers eyes*
Projector screens and 1990s television commercials.
Slippery videotape color graffiti within this alleyway.
That mustache and charm, fine wine and dinner.
Where does the ratking lay upon prey in a town like…

A sacrifice so critical that worship isn’t even necessary.
The necessity of ritual-only altars.
Basins so filled with tears of angels and yet, a hearkening: nope!
Fleshed-out flesh like a skinning did the trick for anyone,
but the cleanup was just a fucking mess, and it was everywhere.
Walls tainted in self and the digestion of selfless mustered ego.
“You think this is a game? That grin for me? What else, tho?”
Stage and screen in a garden amidst the forest green, caved
along the mountainside so rural that “It’s either Pee-wee or me..”

Stuff it into a suitcase padded with gauze and never sleep again.
Vomiting from the smell in a metal trash can in the alley.
Flashbacks to that rural paradise trigger a blissful pain.
And nausea. And you know people are watching. And waiting.
Then the beach on the beach buried in the beach awake.
A language is now completely compressible.
Your shaved head and her shaved head, like…
Perfect outfits and the candy booze sent of bouquet.

Ocean breeze like a proof of alcohol, or of the same variety.
Like, these fumes can gas you into MAD Magazine from here.
As if you were supposed to be there and weren’t.
Or you just got a little weird about everything in general.
So scarification and — like — maturity and shit.
15% travel time, but benefits and lunch-ins, etc. Mandatory
time off, where being responsible is encouraged in light of society.

The feel of a perfect black turtleneck, while smoking 100.
Necessary strobe lights blaring upon entry because,
“Who the fuck is you?”
Yes, this is someone’s backyard.
If you’re my neighbor I got the strippers coming around noon.
Tell the husband to pick up groceries.
There’s never a reason to explain yourself, e er.

Links: Bernardino Femminielli - Mind

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