chopper talk
O L.A., your gut is splayed,
over you we softly trammel,
we piss and shit in your navel
We move betwixt dimensions
The sky is not inside the mansions
The sky is not a blog-aside
The sky does not have track-lists
This page is sanctum for bacterium /
the overheard /
the underpaid / the unassuaged
I continue to casually crush my genitals in the company of girls
with attitudes like neatly and completely demolished
high-rise building sites
where the scene is flat and severe,
no speck of dust no rust
no margins
no piss smell —
all of that
occluded in the contract