I dreamed last night of Frank the Assassin. Sorry, typepad ate the photo, I've no archive of the photo on the computer at my fingers, I'm sure it's on an external drive on a shelf so fuck it. Jeebus, look at that blog. Look at that blog, all the dead blogs on all the blogrolls. The shits and giggles on the blogrolls. Look at that soccer blogroll on the right. Last night United lost 5-2 in Alajuela Costa Rica. Other than noting the new second kits are shit, fuck it. As soon as I started dreaming about Frank the Assassin the above Bowie song started playing in my head, and then I woke and realized it should have been the below Bowie song (yes, I know, it's Turkish for long life), but fuck it, that's how my head worked.
[ready to receive remains...]
ready to receive remains built for death, ready to receive the flatly desolate superficial deeply commissioned intellectual offer of suggestive actions, for the hunger assassin to fall back on and become forceful psychological damage, bottled for drinkable agitation
riding a back seat writing construction, contesting the oncoming molten universe, immersed in villagers, city dwellers, trembling, laughing, (white teeth redone for the perfect test of time), to inhale flesh and stone from long ago, forgetting the horrors of holy oil infusion clocks and gritty body galleries, leaving behind the mourning river’s crimson fragrance smoldering from the previous unbearable fever.
in a posture of myself on a speeding body, without hands and feet, I am ready to receive the vomit of consciousness and proceed down the avenues of suggestion to become a limited option.
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