2 beds 8 people, needless to mention every non-flammable surface ashtray. Tic tocking cat clocks juxtaposed by burn phones and a broken flashing lamp. 2 turn-tables faced east for morning meditations on acid-funk-psychedelia turned yoga sutra. "No strung out junkies in this jungle" carvings at each doorway, upon closer examination just the one. Banana peels were so prevalent slapstick comedians would ooze drool upon sight, small bird carcasses littered around on mismatched china doing the same to cats.
Pheasant-ville, tempo-town, a sideways slum, the mocking mutterings of a doorman bouncer provide the insanity distraction for the cracked thou-shall-not-pass. I live in the one room dormitory and I scream when I don't get my way. Gone beyond the trick turning temptation of easier cohabitation and divine cleanliness, I smell the truth, fuck seeing it. So give in to the pretzel sleep sycophants whose feelers feel around you and on you as you count sheep. Counting too often with another's reading-seeing-eating-art light on. When you stretch your tired face in the A.M., lion-like know, you can do the same.
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