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Blowing out the candle on both ends
Summer here is unimaginably long with fireworks provided by the bus driver

July 15, 2003
The Iranian

Prelude to Hiroshima, Chinese paper lanterns hung in the window. Carmen was hiding smoking skunk in the corner. About that later.

Standing in the shade of orange (naranja) trees on Gabrial-Miro, old fart Firdowsi (he had been a young fart too) saw the bus driver who first pleases, then matches, then comes to dominate his passengers, set off alarm bells (pasa dobles) when he climbed on the bus and saw him. A matador embracing life and death with a red cape and Black Bull T-shirt. Salutos! Swords apart, they took the bull by the horns to become pickled Persian poets, lustful trash with balls of fire.

Tortilla Khayyam thought he was hallucinating under a Spanish star induced by a twitching, jealous imperfoate anus which had stuck with him forever from age 15 in Nishapur with a detached mother and psycopathic father, raw Down Mexico Way with a black and silver sombrerro wanting to make it for the wrong reasons - chik flik fotos, erotic poses inside castles pf Spain Once Upon A Time, reflected in the mirror. How selfish is that?

Shattered by obsession (throw a brick through the window) with Spanish men, Khayyam saw a flash of sunlight through the clouds. Amnesia like honey drizzled on Castillo de Calpe.

The bus disgorged Spanish girls in unbelieveable (veer off at a tangent- "Let's Dance") fresh cinnamon buns of insatiable silver-green dragonflies splattereed on the window pane laughing up the hill to the old town knuckled up (after the Goldrush) fuzzy balls, quoth the Raven "Nevermore", tentative, epocal, cataclysmic climax. Great. Sometimes second rate. Fucking-fishy-fairytales.

Summer here is unimaginably long with fireworks provided by the bus driver in ostentatious glow of "Viva El Amour" of latin longing in stunned silence looking out the window at the sea. In the dark fell in love on the bus full of cockroaches clinging to pineapples in efflurium ecstacy. It could never be washed away. A red rose tattooed on his butt.

Well suited to the daunting task Khayyam chewed sticks, hammered on nuts and cheated on everyone as the driver who spotted Pluto in 1930 and in a tizzy let out green farts blown away by an old fan on the radiator. A stargazing charlatan who led the way to the Taj Mahal, the Egyptian Ra, Sea of Showers, Sea of Nector and Charon the ferryman who rowed souls across the Styxx, creeping away (the gloves were off) not daring to turn around. O:K. Fishhead finish your fook.

Ofcourse we'll never know (does it really matter?) who was able to make a choice. Isolated in Calpe, there and then his reality was altered on the spot with the (what we already knew) writing on the wall. It all fell apart. Babylon loomed across the Mediterranean (with Granada already in his pocket) he knew he would die of malaria, drink or tickling lucious, soft and velvety Spanish vaginas or pluck plump, juicy pears in bed. Like hell you will.

It was an amazing performance capturing the imagination in Calpe in the evening when the creme de la scum darkened Achilles in a yellow chair painted by Vincent with his pipe all sexed up on a pink lace fan perfumed with jasmine. I'm sure there's no one who cares more than I do.

Firdowsi stood in the shade, Khayyam waved from the bus and pointed he was going in the opposite direction down and Firdowsi was going up. A white circle was drawn around Firdowsi at that moment, a final heart-breaking flutter tucked away on page seven with a good reputation for sleaze tingling thrills. Por favor, por favor, please, please.

Unconscious, he waited for mom (who had been dead since 1973) to come home. Mom had been single (last throw of the dice) for years. You're going back to that motel to fuck

armen. She crashed dramatically when pressed to complete a full-size Lego model of the bus. She finally confesses in the Spanish Civil War, she brewed tea in the trenches above the hills of Barcelona. When the phone rang his cock went soft.

Firdowsi cowered in the corner. It was worse than any life sentence. He dreamed he and the driver (didn't give a crap) we're lovers (giving me head on an unmade bed).

He lashed himself to the mast through squalls throughout the moonlit night, sailed beyond the stars (on the beach selling sea-shells in blue jars). At dusk on the red Spanish sea, he blew out the candle at both ends, lit a cigarette and crossed his legs with a cold beer by his side.
Just phone me if you want anything at all.


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By Kristopher Kolumbus




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