. . .

Tiny Obscene Florist, Page 79.

An ad for cigars appears in 100,000 newspapers; sales of that brand increase by 3% for a short time thereafter.

A new play receives a viciously negative review in a theatrical journal that prints 500 copies; the playwright shoots himself.

Who's the better writer?

Ultrasound : "Floodlit World".

It's a Polaroid instant.
Pure.
Electric.
Painful joy.

Stare at the mess.
Take in the awful,
guilt-ridden,
decaying debris.

Must get a cleaner,
Or a kleenex.

Tomorrow is another day.

Sheffield Suddenly Found Its Feet Moving, Its Arms Flailing.

It was dancing all right, but what with Thatcher and everything, it honestly seemed to be dancing to destruction.

Destroyed By Gods

Mantras, Issue 26.

'I recall the smell of soot and iron. The sound of mud larks screaming obscenities at each other. I recall a horse dying one hot summer's day. Dropping where it stood. I recall chimneys. I recall a girl without a jaw.'

Personally, I Lack Any Sort Of Self-Loathing.

And I fucking hate that about myself.

. . .