This was my reply to a beautiful friend who sent me a picture of an owl wearing thick glasses with thick frames and told me to write about myself:
this bird is the type that sings filthy songs before crapping on shades of policemen from tall bridges. I read about one of those in a book of pure love. i like this bird. i want to be this bird.
now for the one-eyed monsters, they are everywhere they say. and i have a mouse running all over my floor circling my empty beer cans. i work and stay in a city far away from home and because i am happy i enjoy solitude and because i am sad i enjoy solitude. i drink beer and goatmilk and then i stare at people who take medicines to avoid flatulence.
i like Bach who had 21 kids. i like traffic signals. i like broken machines. i like bare floorboards. i like the rabbit in the moon. i like the big red booming love because that’s a splendid concept.
and then there’s one more thing which i like.
i like it when it rains because rain reminds me of Cinderella and then i imagine me making violent love to Cinderella and then i sleep and then i wake up, mostly hungover and stare up to observe birds with glasses and then the grocery arrives and then the sky is rot and the i am sitting on the loo, spraying beer-shit and smoking. I don’t read newspapers.
Ugliness fascinates me. So does perversion.
there’s a world on fire out there. And then of course there’s this massive gray phantom moving around the Universe and making fucked geometrical shapes across the roofs and walls.
i have observed that things tend to just be there and live and/or die for themselves. that's funny in a way.
i have also observed that people are just like stoned fishes. that's not funny in any way
i'm hustling dead butterflies and tiny things that shine up this avenue now.
now tell about your kidnappers.