Saturday, August 24, 2013




Rehab, Sex Dept Again

-Well, you signed on as Boytoy. Hence, flashy Rolex.


-The lady's for burning!

-Burnt me out!

-You must continue being the good little machine.

-Hey! There are hobbies, walks, Nature, like!
The great old sports bar with the gang! ...
where a strange woman would drop in without
a past or future. Then try to sit in your lap while
you’re standing up.

-Belay that bushwah! We know YOUR future. It's just the
getting you back in shape. Once, you were in the pink!

-That last an allusion saying I'm not macho enough?

-We'll get you there! Can we get a few more hours?
I know she's into her other lust presently: shopping!

-I'll text her using our babytalk names.

-Which are?

-To my grave with them! People are laughing enough.

-Okay, then. First step. Joint down by the river.
Cook by name of Blinky. One-eyed.

-That's sufficient color.

-His fried liver with enough onions to stink up Albany!
Charge up your blood! Protein and all that other good shit!

-Why is Albany the joke now?

-It shifts. Fashion. Google “jerkwater burgs, history.”

-Into the breech then!

-I can smell those onions from here!

-Don't get too enthusiastic. It’s for me: handsome youth!
Don’t ever forget that you're too old to be a boytoy.

-I can dream. Most do in color, I in black-and-white
dollar signs.

-Film noir with ancient operator. Sam Spade on Social Security.
Don’t make a mistake with my Mrs Rutledge.

-I make many mistakes, young Sir.

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