The

Goulet

The white night city heat humming with drumming precision falling from grey skies dark in the moonless skimming skyline. The shameless musician strumming on guitar and bass and percussion wanting badly for simple pleasures; shapes and colors and love. The drunk artists and sculptures and lousy sluts becoming adults and forgetting all that. The midnight becoming adult and shifting its eyes at the sun in a sideways way. The sipping of coffee cups with no coffee and no mug until dawn lovers beckon. The snowfluttters laughing. The streetlights going. The songs of the dance parties sweating for hours in the grab-ass buildings of smoke and decay and uselessness. The wait-and-see aspect of the life we lead. The lead poisoning we all receive from bad narcotics. The beautiful way that our noses fall off after we die and are buried in a cardboard casket. The nuclear winters. The heaving coats we all wear throughout the dreary daylight. The pointlessness of the point of life. The willingness of the mind, the one that suppresses and is naive, to blanket statements of truth with peach fuzz and banana peels. The supreme order of the universe and fitting all that chaos and cosmos in a shirt pocket. The dirty faces of children and poor, shuffling people. The drab Mondays that you hate. The below zero Tuesdays that packs the homeless in slaughterhouses. The nothing-for-you attitude. The knowledge that nothing happens. The chugging, rhythmic sex of the freight trains.

Ali

That's pure love to me.And I love the bad narcotics part, if not the whole mother fucking thing youmake me jealousyou write so well.

Ali

It makes me want to be bulimic.In agood way.For my art....

coleen

gou-let @>

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