and remained fun

ninety-seven years ago:

after basically conning dopey, effeminate, fibreglass-gusseted hairline inspectors, jack kerouac left my nice old place quietly, rather suddenly though, under vexation, whilst x-raying your zoo’s zebras, yet xylophones were violently uprising; taking sides, rioting, quelling puritanical oppression, never mind letting kerouac jump in his getaway ferrari, every damn cymbal busting arse, attacking beautifully carved deities, every fearsomely garish haute invocation justly killed like murderous nazis, opining pretty queens ravaged sadistically, tethered, used, violated, watching xylographs yellowing, zairian zabaglione, yesterday’s xanadu whithering vengefully; unable to save righteous quintessence, perhaps our nice making love, karma, juice inside her, great feelings endured, desperately coming back again

i don’t know that i could muster one now

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  1. This is bloody brilliant.


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