April March – Mingnonette
I’m still looking at you out of the corner of my eyes. You’re impenetrable, inhumanly impervious to all my cooing and wooing. I’m dreaming about gutting your concrete lovelessness and being reborn a twitching bacterial cog of your dinosaurian dynamo. It’s not because I’m itching to work in your stiff, uncaring bosom but because you are a high-maintenance cock-teaser. You’re white girls with jean shorts. You’re a heavenly peep show whose unwitting protagonists are scrambling to exit from the jerky stage of my paramount yen leaving a stinging sensation of earthly evanescence in my misty pupils. You’re fallen angels. You enabled me to put the flesh on many people who previously existed only on the internet. Some were better looking, some were not. I was lucky to watch Thurston Moore from a distance, although I missed his show. But he wasn’t most affecting. [ ] is. She was a Nico reincarnation. I’m hoping for April March. I read She’s living in NYC. And of course, I wouldn’t talk to her even if she is standing in front of me.