garage sale coffins and classical music

it's a bywater afternoon and memories are being reconditioned, rebuffed from one truth to another, one or two, it would seem, I was unaware of.  so be it.  these days I'm told I'm concentration camp thin, thus my concentration be wasted, which may or may not be good as our porch fetus grows larger by the rains, these mouths to feed and all ... but to be honest I don't have time for children.  they disgust me, wretched little bastards.  let them die, I say.  to hell with the future and dirty diapers.  the world already smells fucking terrible.  and I can't keep my thoughts clean and shaven ... there are too many fashionable bartenders in this god damn town. with not one favor left to ask, it is all in the hands of the gods ... crooked sons of bitches ... read closely and you will find no sign of suspense, the outcome is certain:  I am utterly fucked.  doomed.  a total bitching wreck.  what is there to do but listen to music in beautiful foreign languages?  indeed.  lousy translations of the master fucking speech.  english.  yes.  a solid drink straight from the bottle.  these days I'm pulling inspiration from sources chameleon and strange, unusual muses dawning trace disguises, they appear to be human beings, but who can be sure?  everything shimmers in the breeze and sunlight, no real focus at all.  I miss playing music ... and basketball for that matter.  this would be why ...