Night horses and I dislike this place.
Dancing, falling, veins, veins all around.
The placenta of these blue skies, symptom of the Jonesy.
And a fluo screen all covered in monkey crap, now listen:
the national roads were all-wet under a summer sun, naked girls were inhaling nasty gas whispered in my ears like a magnetotherapy; you cried.
The deep-blue space was prologue and insolation: now they move like mechanical puppets goin' toward their own Altamont; all this sucks, give me a fuckin' break!
Sharon Tate was our name back then, blackened in the dark; the day presented itself limpid and vaporous, like the daughters of Zeus Hospital during the Olympiad: oh flummoxing sanguine addiction of the silvery gods! Repugnant rites! Won't they never ever stop this torture?
I saw Roman Polanski sitting down at his dark living room, he was watching theeeeeee...ehhhh???!!
Watching the TV; European movies, great filmmakers, smoking a Virginia Slims 100's.
Polanski was watching Altamont live, the whole slaughter was at hand, by means of a wired remote control. The color TV wanted to GTFO...in the outside a simultaneous rain was breaking loose: heros were raining, Batman and Merman and the Space Ghost falling on the Polanski's patio: the profound terror provoked some nausea in my psyche, I felt like puking.
II)
Roman was all in sado-black leather, but In the interim, the Polanski's face experienced a violent transformation, a radical re-shaping (sic): his chin started getting stretched like an inflated pear, and his chin, crawling on the blue carpet of the living room, went happily outdoors, getting entangled among the laurels and the baobabs of his sophisticated micro-garden.
The stoned chicks came in, and the orgy started.
Porn movies were played in Betamax and the kilometric Polanski's chin penetrated a playmate: everybody was fucking, they brought Egyptian hyenas and Italian pizzaiolas.
Hot areolas.
And hot trolas.
And Enolas.
Little more to say actually from a feast which finally turned into fiasco
just a chronicle from some night in Bel Air: the Beverley Hills' police.
Came.
In the rain.
With John Wayne.
Night horses and I dislike this place: a raped fairy was screaming hanging from the ventilator, the floor: all covered in used condoms; black chicks, Asian chicks, cops all around, lots of nasty gas, the radio blasting Engelbert Humperdinck out loud, disorder, trash, radio out loud.
Radio.
Estadio.
Escabio.
Favio.
Labio.
Labia.
Rabia.
Arabia.
Fuuuckkk oooooooffffffffffff!!!
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