Doctor, I’m strolling on my chair, and the streets in my apartment are alive and singing. There is my Black with a green hat schoolmate, appearing up the hillock with his school bag and his Tupperware, a cat is leaking his paw, then ten of them, on containers in a small escape (that would be my bathroom) under a flamboyant moon. I’m listening to a most delicate music, flamboyant fingers hitting rolling piano’s keys while a woody voice ensures the Boogie-Woogie.
My bisexual ears want to marry you
There I go, throwing my pot away, blessing the medication I’m about to receive, on the brink to have an Eureka, because I’m realizing that the fact that my right leg is plastered, and my ass condemned to stay put, has nothing to do with the cosmical distance that separates my son from the author of these lines, which, like Frankenstein, are about to destroy every phallic fucking building that’s on its way, sink every pantagruelist cargo, spit from heavens on every false democracy and send kisses to some peaceful regions of this world whom nobody seems, here in middle Europe, to care about or, more accurately, learn from.
My syntax might go risperidoniac, but my soul remains entirely committed to Boogie-Woogie
I’m laughing, because I realize Charlotte (hey, cool down, Corazón!) will read these lettrers, and I’m ashamed, but I don’t know what I am ashamed about. Told you, risperidoniac…
Is it coherent, Doctor, to put a title at such an early distance? From the previous one? Or not?
The hiccup might explain the frenetic pace with which I use punctuation, although it might also be a consequence of my heavy smoking…
Before the train leaves definitively
What a great idea! Diego (that’s the unprobeable name)! Close to a Eureka… Well, if well mixed words worth a missile, if music is THE warlord, and if Rhythm IS the pacifier, Pierre (that’s the suitable name) will receive this, whatever the form or the length of the text. But. What was your idea? Mister schizo boy? Had non, but if you propose me, here:
Make this text my first published artwork, capitalize (that means pot and beer) on the natural revenue, blind myself to the critics, be them laudable or downright unjust, and finally, cerise on top, buy…
Bye
Who can tell if the sentence is long enough and if it says something? For instance, did you grasp it? But first, did you recognize yourself? No. I’m not sure. I’m unsure if you are me, or if I’m you. The text is mine. La preuve. It is also not a letter. It isn’t a post. Or is it?