Saturday, January 10, 2009
Track One (2:08)
Robert Cohn was once middleweight boxing champion of his spinal column and now all of a sudden he’ll have no control of a doorless car.
It is impossible for man to really transcend human glasses, and I was holding a plunger in the picture just to be really Princeton.
Do not think that I am very much impressed by that she was crying and bleeding, curled against the toilet.
Oh, and it moved her hand around her breasts.
She was now talking of flesh and rationality.
This is what the Peyote Church is: sexual desire.
On the surface these two actions, they nurtured it and they believed in it and they made you believe in it as a boxing title, but it meant a lot to Cohn.
He cared nothing for her hands up as if she were praying but with her hands (an inch) hands held there in the positions dictated, the film she touched would die.
She believed that she had some terrible ethics of sympathy, of personal devotion on records in 1976.
They took it to the English kids and from there to boxing; in fact he disliked it, but he learned it painfully and thoroughly.
Track Four (1:52)
He would hit all these high schools, nice boy, he never fought except in the gym.
He was Spiders, Gremlins and Pacers, Mavericks and Hornets, Pintos, international bound for Stuttgart or Milan, peering down at us.
She asked for God’s help.
He appreciated their being with forces – that is, leaving his mother behind – and the vaginal pus, somewhere among the filthy hypo syringes and Kelly’s star pupil.
Spider Kelly taught all his young gentlemen to drinking at a pub near the castle where every day busloads of English knees and thighs arrived.
Despite its servo-brakes and Power All-Night Native American Church Meetings, knowing of my mind perfectly at rest there’s nothing about taking acid on the Santa Monica Pier.
I couldn’t help zeroing in, box like featherweights, no matter whether they weighed one car waiting for me.
I know where all the skeletons are.
Consider the deliberate destruction of expensively engineered Robert Kennedy in 1968.
Track Six (4:23)
The most discerning ethicists have shown dripping letters and showed him with his shirt off with makeup - a certain satisfaction of a strange sort, and it certainly improved the bass tracks, that it screws with his biorhythm.
The last time we created by the multiplying technologies of the twentieth top tipi hole.
I was floating, looking at myself disembodied.
What happens to me happens through me, and something like the Ramones, but a little more…well, more his nose.
In his last year at Princeton he read too much running through the vaults and galleries of her innards at two in his garden.
Can you see them in one of magic?
The road man took the coal out of his mouth, placed claim to this war.
But in addition the war is mine because by body and they knew everything about new music and they dressed and took to wearing spectacles.
I never met any one of his class said she wanted to get pregnant.
She said she wanted to have my headlamps.
She sat beside him, now treatment seems so simple.
It is also rather frightening to reduce him to an object.
The effect of all materialism started to really come together as this weird little community who remembered him.
They did not even remember that he was the size of an egg cup, and she would sit there at her desk in the ramp of the flyover, the traffic lanes were packed with Vietnam.
After the war, when he was living in Phoenix, sometimes can adapt the world and its possibilities to my band.
For better or worse, my work was displaced historically.
I, middleweight boxing champion, hammered that beautiful mister angel face, first with the bony circus hand.
I recognized him as one of the stuntmen at peaceful tipi.
I felt a giant ball well up in my throat, but there is no doctrine more optimistic; since you’re that young, you don’t think you’re ever gonna see your family again.
Posted by Jason Gusmann