the it of it–

that was when she met trizzle. trizzle is great good upta no good. there are scars on the back of hers from this flailing. slowly traipsing in fast motion thru light, geek, square eyeglasses. they are thickly framed and trizzle is inside of them. there is a bar and woozily making through. dancing krazily in beats like insane dogs. completely insane humans are much the same. we have had copious tequila. in the night there is wolfgang. he sits. he sits the wolfgang, climbing licking jumping, not insane but of love. of love is wolfgang the dog. he is a goodness to trizzle so hydra adopts the him. we are doing things. there is clumsy sticky.

much drink for the gullet has been had in pouring. no end to it. insisting upon paying in trying to stick to last reminiscence of radical feminist politics, or even feminist politics. woozilying.

then, hydra falls.

we are gone, we go to wolfgang the dog of trizzle. we are doing things in the night, she has made a sculpture of coins. there are things.

in the morning she wakes with scars upon the back of own.

these never disappear.

trizzle has taught her to tiger. hydraian fangs now evermore insatiable, seeking the soothe unfinding. we are of danger. we are of fighting and pouncing. soothe is no good4us. now trizzle is gone on the periphery of things, but the life as understood by series of addictions, addicted to adrenaline and the booms in our beakers, tipping into tongues of hott people, this madness unshruggable, we dont begin to care for meditation to rid ourselves of menace that sprouts growth like tongue tree vines, grip ground hold.

searching wildly with madness in the eyes of ours for flushed face and glow of those that will let us do them.




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