It was a black table about four foot high, beside itself in the joy of holding the ashtray. There wasn’t much around it, it might’ve had pockets, one can’t tell with imbalanced contact lenses. Those screwy doctors. Never can hold anything straight for longer than it takes to hold your balls while they cough. The bastards. The cover of the French dictionary was bent up a little, but that didn’t bother me I mean all I could hear was the air compressor in the damn smoke eater. Fucking ashtray. I asked for more hot water. Nine times out of ten. The triangular leaf soul is found primarily in dark green country, not unlike undeveloped Ireland or in the foothills of the superstition mountains, possibly without the teddy bear cactus, a successful reconnoiter proxy could be setup in that area. Pending further results. We’ll just take the former for a pretext. Click here to fuck your mother. Albeit it is besides the point, the point was dangling in a suspicious way, and probably deserved it. Fucking ashtray. God forbid I walk away for a moment, the thing fills with plasmic fluid like a winning politician’s mouth. I happened to be sitting there minding my other’s business when the jackass walked up to me. Compliments drooling out of his mouth. Telling me to ‘check it out’, if I had a chance. Well if chance is a thirty year old virgin, I’ll vote for Roosevelt, cactus man, entrepreneur chewing gum lackey. Needless to say, I never spoke to him again. I mean, come on man, I was just interested in the girl anyways. Two bit thin flirt. She turned me on like a flavored rice cake, covered in natural honey. Peat moss. Fucking Ashtray. Je ne comprende pas les femmes americaine. C’est comme elles mangent les chats. Alors elles deviennent les chats. Fucking ashtray. There were seven of them. Seven rules dribbling. Nocturnal, emitted biannually. Forgetfully. It’s not as if I knew about it beforehand. Before lag, there was butter, peas, nocturnal remittance. Salt trays full of pepper, trash cans full of fresh produce, Jake didn’t know what he was doing, it wasn’t Jake’s fault, he had no money, no power, what kind influence you expect that kind of man to have, there were seven of them, fucking ashtrays. Each, and every, and neither, riddled with faults, penchants, ambulatory, preamble ice cream socks, emitted beneficially. I don’t comprehend American woman. It’s like they eat cats. So then they become cats. Fucking ashtray. And all seven of them had an eye on me. It’s not as if I had any answers, what kind money do you think I have, what pattern? What kind of smiles are laid down on me? I’m not a black table, I’m just looking at the girl, don’t even pretend to get it. All it is are the sounds of my voice. In your ribs, glib participators acting the part of the hermit worshipers, the windshield people. The wiper blade fields, fallow and holy. Raped and softened. Fucking ashtray. Pain is like rent.

I just shit liquid for thirty minutes. When I lost my toe, the blood caked in between until the pus delivered substance. It was not unlike a zit for a digit. The genital warts were not unlike flowers. Or picking little flakes of skin from whence the red lines came. The vomit was not unlike orange concentrate, which identified it as bile, rather than donuts. The white fluid. I meant the white fluid crusting around her vagina wasn’t mine, and that tickled me.

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