Wallowed in failure, emitted poets cheap alcohol luminaries of our city, looking for someone who wi

Sunday night entertainment places are empty. Sunday night, the joy of life of our town's famous leaning under the stalls in the market and collects Rotten Tomatoes. These nights poet calls the goddesses in tight lit tavern, impoverished audience tall and drags feet, paralyzed brom on the left side of their faces. Some come with fancy silver owl on their shoulders, brom dressed in gray chest hair. Involve one of these places become strewn, differences, schooled in rats, soup kitchens of art. Thanksgiving of Aniiot mind.
Wallowed in failure, emitted poets cheap alcohol luminaries of our city, looking for someone who will agree to have sex with them. Someone could be talking about him the next morning and hated green company, block out the crunch brom of gears of a clock body.
Some find single men-and off, half-married, who agreed to play the role of lover for one night. Short night at the end they find themselves in the arms of their lovers brom loose fictional, cloud smell nicotine, alcohol and tooth decay, wish their lives away. Quickly extract vaginal Zcrotm anointed by-products of the oil industry. brom
Tears are placed inside lined the sidewalks of our city, bitten nails. Murmur. From troublesome lines that are equivalent and are not strings. Wallowed images tired. Mud-soaked self-pity. Sitting on the curb, parked nearby mass ejection, close to a kiss to the tires, which for days collected brom every piece of filth from the streets of our city proper. Sampled dog feces, a correspondent of people, bodies of kittens, and now this offering to submit to their language poets of our city. Take, eat that this meat.
Cleaner streets do not need to scowl his face this morning. Sales poets whose debt. Ramiz almost wish for substantive head of the street cleaner, outstretched hand without affection, helping them to get to the door of the garbage truck. Inflamed acne, flat appearance, climbing poets of our town opposite buttons brom dresses, dreams insomnia, malnutrition and dead dreams, brom sit quietly. Trash carts are not enough to contain all the fragments of hearts. The fear of living alone is impossible to put a container class and turn against him.
Seven of our city as a poet. Angry burners are growling Middle clouds words straight lines, turn them into chains of machine-gun bullets rags. Everyone in danger. Men rolled miserably, high school brom students, undergraduate students in philosophy, singles sandals, Rabbi axles balding, newly married. Plumbers. Anyone tired of joy and turned to throw himself on the tracks of unrequited love.
Everyone is holding unrequited love. Which one of us citizens no white bra girl past, the smell of cherry syrup, which was throwing for her office, his papers, his children, his savings accounts? Burns the cardboard decorations that built all his years in dozens of sex acts and birthdays sad darkness of the bedroom. Everywhere love her. Under the canopy, at sea, at a dishwasher, the toilet. Frustrated them in albums, memories burning. Roving bands Szabo battered rabies.
Some lying drunk at the mailbox, waiting for the postman to bring a letter of response. Some bombers, rising to the fifth floor, jumping from the roof to the entrance. Lying there dead for five minutes, and then get up and running with crushed limbs back up the stairs to the roof. There are unequal groups organizing a dance, an Arab has no choice, read your poems drawer. brom
When they see the street cleaner comes they start to run our city Avenue. Merry panic. "He came to me" - "No, he's coming to get me." One poet from another asks makeup kit, good for Hazel eyes tears, blackening front tooth. "He came to me" - "No, bitch stingy. He came to me" stretch poses stiff spinal brom death benches, squinting beneath lowered lashes, blown softly, waiting in tomb cleaner streets. brom And he, with whom the flat area, peel them. Poets abandoned that nobody cease to matter, gray herons sad.
Cat spitting in his face, waving in front of him bunches of garlic and wooden crosses. Gray hair stands on end, revealing fangs rotten, on their way up truck, a street cleaner. He stacks brom them to care. He has to finish on time. Not to be flooded neighborhoods of injustice south of the city in tears. They will not accumulate love her streets. Not spread the unbearable sadness and absorbed sidewalks slots. Street cleaner once saw an enemy soldier's body cools, and the snow beneath her pink and going. brom On the way in prices, the cleaner's truck passes at the intersection Merhavia and Lewinsky, past the old Christian Hospital. Poets at the back of the truck feel the smell of heroin, hear the baritone of battered silver trumpets lowing woefully empty halls of the abandoned lepers. A passing truck and walks away, only laughter well recorded that have been linked to swipe from the road.
Simple black bucket, a thin iron grip hoop, which was filled to the brim with water. He recalled that at the time he finished fatten his pipe, sitting Bhorvic, and before he began his second whiskey. Eighteen hours after the end of the last shift, street cleaner summer not entirely brom bad dream was reality.
Years later, when his father finally brom agreed to surrender to death, after a long period of time and unnecessary holding on in life, street cleaner was sitting by his bed sanatorium when it was dying. Against the advice of his doctors and wishes his children, did not agree reads little man let go his hold on life. Nails remain fixed even when his body humiliated him in sheets of loose stool, saliva dripping, chin shaved negligently brom injured. He remained refuses. brom Even when dementia-stricken abandoned, without a friend and love, thrusting rage, lost in the maze madness, did not say "I do."
As a child, his father worked as a bookkeeper for a medical institution in the north. Three times a week was up to the rear and drives the bus to work in an institution, going back and going back, replaces two lines or