Bada

Chain link mouths nip at rotting flesh hanging on hooks. There's a zombie sound up the hall and I feel that my time here has just begun. Time to run fish hooks into the ground. I have this Mustang and it does 20 to 40. Paris Hilton dropped by with some ugly beads. Baubles and trinkets litter the floor. We're so full of crack we can't take it anymore.
Drum beats hump my couch and I dispense the rest of the bottle down my throat. It feels like spiders crawling down my throat. I want you to put your tongue deep inside me and down my throat. There's a vacation from all this, and it starts at the turnpike and into the freeway's throat.
Feathers and numbers fall from the shaman's skirt. He's up to the gills and absinthe and ugly mushrooms that make the world look like William Burrough's stool.
I want to tell you about the Sweathouse. It's adorned in maplewood and wormwood. It's the size of Montana, but without the open space. Our souls leave our bodies, leaving no trace. The sunken flesh sits and reeks in the alcohol and begs to be distinguished. We set the whole barn on fire and run to the next job.
There's nine cities you'll have to visit before you die. Eight of them will kill you. Visit beautiful Cairo and have your sense of pleasure tempered by wolves. Send your children to New York to be prosituted by a thick pimp with the hair of a brillo pad. Take a taxi to Toledo and buy Oxycontin from a waif in a mini skirt. There's six more to go.
I can't help but feel that whatever is under my skin is now all over you.