he sits down in the lobby and the tv is playing some show, there are also stacks of magazines on the table
  after about a minute and thumbing through the stations with the remote and eating complimentary breathmints the bearded man with a green neck approaches, and he has jewelry hanging from his nose
"Are you Sebastian?"
he says calmly and nicely
"well yes I am!"
"well okay then, nice to meet you, why don't you have a seat over there"
as he points to a pristine barber shop chair with bright red lapels and that smell of lavender.
Next to the seat is a petite girl with a bettie page hair do and traditional rose tattoos on her hips
and floral designs lining her shoulder, you barely notice.
"Okay, we agreed on the yellow
  snake with bubbles to signify your dog's passing correct?"
he says to me
"yes, yes we did"
"Well okay then! Let's get started!"

He starts, and it's the gentlest ***** you've ever felt, and the Joy Division pumping through the speakers sets you at ease.
A mother with her kids and a face tattoo of a dagger strolls in; on her lunch break, she schedules an appointment to have her back scalpeled with the design of a Christmas tree so as to be ironic because she's really a satanist; but it's pagan anyway so no-one cares.

    After about 2 hours, my artist finishes and wraps me with sandwich plastic and rubs hemmoroid cream all over the yellow snake. It's beautiful.
"You sat like a champ! Here's a lolly for you"
it's a green lolly and I **** it; it really tastes good, and I go home and admire my tattoo in the mirror for hours
and talk about it to all my friends who have the same yellow snake. It really makes me feel like I belong

It's not enough to be a good writer or poet anymore
You have to be a savvy business man as well; really sell yourself.
Get that Facebook account and Instagram primed with the right photos and have your Snapchat story good while posing over a balcony in Dubai,
really have your abs showing, and flex your biceps.
Have your book sitting atop the makeup canvass as you sell your product, and make sure the lighting is ideal, and make sure you post bi-weekly on YouTube and include the ad-code for 15 percent off,
Also look at the analytics to deduce your audience: Jamaican maids with blue pantsuits
Be savvy and cutthroat, and remember *** sells, but not at much as surface noise, so open your mouth and say.........,.............

I had a dream that people were huddled over my poems and discussing their content and really involved and almost arguing and laughing and really getting into it, and that I had some validation, but it was my imagination, one of those
Crazy fever dreams when it's
5 am and you're delirious and half awake.
I don't mind, it just means I have the
Auditorium to my self.
I set the matches on the table along with the gasoline; I'm tired of the circle ****.
The flies shall speak, and they shall simply buzz around the *****
cake in the hall  reserved for spectators

"WHAT'S YOUR WORD COUNT?
WHAT'S YOUR WORDCOUNT?" he shouted

I don't know, but I make my words count

It's 4:10  and the crack heads are awaking.
The streetcar rolls down the street and slithers in rust,
The ragged gypsy prepares her pajamas, the innocent nun
folds her silk white underwear and stares at the morning sun,
The alcoholic collapses in the dirt,
The satanist cries with a teddy bear, the transgender watches SpongeBob,
The child plays with grass,
The ****** eats stilts,
The dog dances in carpet,
The god praises
Jehovah
All lights illuminate,
And the crowds are transfixed. It's a communion
Of liars and all will be hungry
What a shame,       What a
waste
At least we have prayer

I remember ******* on her massive jugs and feeling her body's undulation as the fingers went deeper.
I licked up every last drop of her, and the blue light cascaded down on our bare bodies
After 2 hours I fell back into the recliner and made my self an
OJ
She was like a dream in heat, and I had no where to be. We both sat in silence in the cool heat and the seconds ticked by like melting ice in October

I feel like Trevor in uk82
****** and full of industrial glue
Breaking windows
And slashing tires
Robbing homes and setting fires
Swazi on the head you don't give a ****
The world treats you like a boot's imprint
Alone in the cell you can't breathe
The warden cries evermore,
And blood gushes from your slashed veins and the littered head of
tyrants
Roll down a hill to hell