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You have no calls
My bloody Valentine. Weird shit.

July 15, 2003
The Iranian

Dirty, filthy, deserter from the Bakhtiari crap old gold twinkling, flamingo Spanish Armada nudged gently awake as her tits were searched with night-vision cameras and detectors. Cigaretts piled up on the dusty floor.

Violet incense ashes fell on the blue and white Chinese soup spoons dimmed for take-off in the apartment with a balcony two blocks from the morning star fucking the sea. She never finished a song.

Reissued this month swallowed too many pills as well as Rioja vino toe-curdling in bed in a baseball cap, New York Yankees.

'She told me he went behind her back.'

'Anything else?'

Parental neglect (a slut for a mother and a nomad for an absent unfortunately) characteristic ( I seem to recall) nevertheless, every dog has his day so she wheeled her smashed-up Vespa hide-and-seek shot dead. Greeted with complete apathy. She told Khayyam she would surrender.

The sun was shinning on duck arse haie-dos dripping with pomade the street thick with tires crunching mediterranean crab wrapped in plastic wrap near a flock of seagulls so wounded hip hop at the cultural center a blue pool and a vase of orange roses ree-dick-u-poignant loss hat-trick wreck.

My bloody Valentine. Weird shit.

Shame on you no great shakes false starts always hit a bag from Nepal with a mandala in an amber heart it takes two to rumble for real.

It's a daunting task but has to "Oh Boy!" after he checked out.

Heart of the tune at 96 583 8934 didn't call back.


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By Kristopher Kolumbus




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