COLUMNS / CORINTHIANS

Smell the smelter. The iron works. 
A charmed mind is resilient in its efforts to evade the rusted palaces, shoreside.
Paperwork. Paperwork.
Had some π and coffee, thinking of that old mathematic mechanic cafe that used to be around here.
There was also a boutique that played songs with a stir of strings when it got lights out and late.
Washington Square could spare some more tales, a splash of port mayhaps for this salty dog. 
It serves a dood draped in ox-blood any ole' time.

This goldern necronomicon got side-saddled stitching and was distributed by this zine distro out near where James Dean got wrangled in the reins of his Little Bastard.
In life's free-for-all explosions of emotions the question persists as well.  
Is the internet about good or bad vibes?

Does hell prevail? Oh well, I'm not sure. The demon-haunted world seems undaunted - joyous, even.
But the kicks are getting higher than a legion of chicas' can-can.

Another fax came in with all the words - funny ones.
The end came with the question of when a joke is a joke or a funny statement a funny statement or just merely an actual inescapable position witnessed from afar. 
Laughter draws blood into the lungs. 

Singing is thrilling.

Singing is resisting.

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