love me a peasant man…

Fifteen Bashings

You want Sasquatch to watch…

I’m dysphoric and elipsis-phobic

Dreaming of the drama at the diorama atop Lookout Mountain — shit no!

Trip your mama by the squelcher and palaver at the knees of Booth Tarkington and the stuff of effetism and the unruliness of the tentacles of love.

I love me a peasant man on a small quay in Santorini smacking a freshly caught octopus into the nearby rocks to soften it up — it’s been dead a while. Just how did he kill it?

Some other way than this brutal bashing?

This death of 15 bashings into the primordial Agean rocks is not a pretty way to go.

What’s a pretty way to go?
Shot to death in the future head?
Don’t know.

“Just write every day of your life. Read intensely. Then see what happens.”

— Ray Bradbury

About istsfor manity

i'm a truncated word-person looking for an assemblage of extracted teeth in a tent full of mosquitoes (and currently writing a novel without writing a novel word) and pulling nothing but the difficult out of the top hat while the bunny munches grass in the hallway. you might say: i’m thee asynchronous voice over in search of a film....
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