06-04-2018, 04:45 AM
You read it well. Humor and rage are always HST's weapons. He and I almost share a birthday, and what I tell people about myself could be said of him, I am truly the Crab, my body of work is my shell and my jokes are my claws. The substance of his writing is always the sense of failure, he's very much an elegist in disguise as a Pindaric-Rabelaisian celebrant of chaos and savage wildness. He lived and died with the consciousness of a failed artist in an ambiguous social structure. His passions were too intense to sit and write art like Hemingway or even H.L. Mencken.
Catch up, mount the scarlet pony on the way to the infernal regions,
you only got one chance and that’s exhausted soon as you discover
everything golf-head says about your future.
What wounds transpire on your worthless body is nothing.
Compare it to where you'll be if everything is discovered,
the plan, the dirty dream unfolded about the man on top of
the silicone sister blown-up mistress of ejaculate surprise.
All comes down to trust, that’s what we lookin’ for son, lie your ass off, truth
as we know it, nothing wrong with that, only thing wrong is your lack of loyalty.
So he told the truth.
Catch up, mount the scarlet pony on the way to the infernal regions,
you only got one chance and that’s exhausted soon as you discover
everything golf-head says about your future.
What wounds transpire on your worthless body is nothing.
Compare it to where you'll be if everything is discovered,
the plan, the dirty dream unfolded about the man on top of
the silicone sister blown-up mistress of ejaculate surprise.
All comes down to trust, that’s what we lookin’ for son, lie your ass off, truth
as we know it, nothing wrong with that, only thing wrong is your lack of loyalty.
So he told the truth.