love is a banquet from which we leave

i want to watch the empire skin a man alive. i don't know. we put each other through infinite amounts of agony. don't understand what i'm feeling. i want to meet hieronymus bosch. it's sorta weird how he's so anonymous. i have nothing. two empty glasses. hung images. going to the library to gather pictures of yugoslavian concentration camps. it seems pretty to be in the dark cutting flowers with scissors that are still connected to being 8, the carousel, and spilling wine because the damn earth ain't an even surface. then in a room, you're only space, constantly listening to two songs with two empty glasses and only one coughin nail left. it's all typical. the mallard. a family of dead wrestlers. and somehow the fire can never get big enough, the flames never get high enough. it hurts so bad, like the supremes, especially that girl who got eclipsed by diana and could only reconcile with all the drinks. a ha ha ha. take me to russia. and a mixtape and a walkman (could you only imagine a girl on a train with a walkman and THOSE eyes). this is so fractured that lawrence taylor would say i couldn't do better. just remember that jesus got tempted by that last lil' trick. saving humanity? HAH! that sly devil, it's the easiest method to tell a man his actions are selfless. he'll follow you to the grave! "this is the way, step inside!" i'd rather, rather sadly mind you, believe morrissey, because you just haven't earned it yet, baby! atleast i am. and atleast i'm gun' go see lil' wayne. and i saw a fite in a strip club. and a candle in the face of a drunk airforce man. i can't make these things up, the opportunities are infinite. to bed with jerry springer on the mind.
always pro-tomorrow,
galvin (in spray paint)