The Middle Ages
Cara Ellis and Chris Jackson and I live in East Williamsburg, that noman’sland caulked between Billsburg and Bushwick. I have fleas and as of yet no door to my room. No hi-fi music because a cat recently sprayed my stereo with his ‘mones. I run some mornings, in square patterns amongst warehouses and blighted residential-industrial over the dark-ages filth that sheaths the streets. Yesterday I counted three dead mice, flattened, and saw a smattering of the pool of blood I’d seen the morning before, large birdsized, with feathers stuck in it but the body gone. I saw some old condoms. I saw a loose page of pornography blowing around, and the girl’s nipples had strange prosthetic extensions on them that penetrated the air in an angle analogous to the erect member of her partner who was preparing to enter her from behind.
Three weeks ago someone masturbated at me on the L between the Lorimer and Montrose stops at 4:30 in the afternoon on a Saturday with about 10 other people on the train. I poured my [unfortunately iced] coffee on his unimpressive lap.
Three weeks ago someone masturbated at me on the L between the Lorimer and Montrose stops at 4:30 in the afternoon on a Saturday with about 10 other people on the train. I poured my [unfortunately iced] coffee on his unimpressive lap.