Dogs, pogs; rumbling hogs.

You can look at the dogs, or lick the city; to find out how goes the sufferin'. It Varanasi it can be tough.


It's plausible that my heart is slowly being asphyxiated:

I can ascertain the dog years go faster here; not by a multiplication of seven; but instead by the rate at which the dogs chew out, chew off; their own hair and become skinheads. It seems to parallel their rate of developing into antagonistic sister-fuckers, an act you really can't blame them for but you loathe them for regardless. This is years after the time when they fruitlessly nub at their mother's nipples for milk, that is, if they make it past the garbage and cow dung that brings together the fresh sweep of morning.

This one is plump and merry; but he be from Poona.


That other one, is dead; as was the woman I saw at the train station yesterday with both her hands and mouth full of flies, like a sardonic smiling clown.

Well then: It's spring time, let's mate.