30/1/03

A spider in an old man’s beard is like a child, lost in a crowd of a million sparks/needles the oars on the boat, rode as if trying to escape from some cruel game of Chinese water torture, nothing was the same now that it was gone, the wino took to coma like a soothsayer pulls lies/deception from his twisted evil mouth, the dice rolled out of the cup toward her, like flies to honey, a child in need, like a wasp, twisted in pain from a spent sting, rising nausea in a belly like muscles stretched taut over bone, as if I should wake before I die, I give my soul to take to me


z
(journal entry, auto-writing)