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Crisp mutilated tinsel burns away like turpentine-drenched toothpaste, like photographs fanning grease fires. Anachronistic reminders enshroud crowded hearts and muddled words, and this life is but a puddle of incendiary insolence. Solace, solace is all I seek but hindered ways and broken-legged attempts at courtesy shatter my resilience into microscopic cataclysms, leaving behind naught but bitter, bitter truth a la Hemingway, Camus, Sartre, and Mr. Illich. Duane Hall would be pleased as punch flavored headlights. Jet black Bostonian February swallows me, another shot, another round, face down in the snow with 18 inches to spare. 18 inches Ďtil next year, but I feel 2 millimeters tall around you. Gigantic, gigantic, a big big disappointment of elegiacally malformed intentions, bruised prohibition, vocal inhibition. Dissipated by a fresh frost of Golgothan immediacy, Iím retroactive in my decision but proactive in my disgust. Locusts swarm the peace proceedings, shells fall and itís Ardennes all over again. Iíve got a patent on loquacious discontent, a masterís degree in fire fighting repression, and absolute obsession. Kill it. Kill it. Take lots with alcohol, leave the ashes in the rust pile, dismantle the pleasantries, do away with everything that is Sonnet 116. Let the pedantic ice flows of misplaced affection melt away, youíll be you again someday. Youíll thank yourself for this, when you wake up, when you feel the liquid nitrogen grasp your lungs. Because loveís a flamethrower and we all need a cool drink sometimes.


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The following comments are for "Woody Allen's Phantasmagoric Plethora of Beer Petals and Bicycling Heartbreak"
by Virtex





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