They bit the detective on the back of the neck and screamed excitedly in the police car, because the crimes they committed were only their own crazy sodomy and drug abuse.
They knelt on the subway and howled, shaking their genitals and waving manuscripts, and were dragged off the roof.
They let the sacred motorcyclists crowd behind them and shout with joy.
They lick others and are caressed by human Seraphim and water, which is the love touch from Atlantic and Caribbean.
They have sex in the rose garden in the morning and in the grass of the cemetery at dusk, and their liquid is happily sprinkled on anyone who can reach orgasm.
They kept burping behind the partition wall in Hamam, trying to squeeze out giggles, but in the end they just choked up and sobbed, and naked angels with blond hair and blue eyes rushed forward to stab them with their swords.
They lost their lover because of three ancient destiny gophers, one was the one-eyed heterosexual, the other was squeezing out of the womb to blink, and the other was simply cutting off the money of the wisdom of the Weaver Girl.
They had crazy and greedy sexual intercourse, holding a bottle of beer, a lover, a pack of cigarettes and a candle rolling down from the bed.
It lasted on the floor and in the living room until the last vulva appeared in front of us and fainted on the wall, reaching its climax at the last moment when consciousness dissipated.
They let a million girls shivering in the sunset enjoy a sweet time,
My sweet eyes are bloodshot in the morning, but I am still ready to enjoy the joy of sunrise and the fleeting donkey in the barn and the naked body in the lake.
They wandered around Colorado and raped prostitutes in stolen night cars. Nika is the protagonist of these poems.
This Denver rooster and Anthony-his past is happy. He has knocked down countless girls on the empty foundation and the back seat of the dining car.
On the rickety chairs in the cinema, in the caves at the top of the mountain, or on the familiar roads, lift the petticoats of the gaunt waitresses, especially in gas stations, toilets and alleys at home.
They gradually disappeared into the huge dirty cinema, were kicked out in their dreams, and woke up in Manhattan.
The cold wine and the horror of the difficult dream on the third avenue dispelled their hangover in the cellar, and then they plunged into the door of the unemployment shelter.
They walked on the snow-covered dock all night, with blood in their shoes, waiting for the East River to open the door of the room full of steam and opium.
They climbed to the top of the cliff apartment on the Hudson River and committed a tragic suicide in the blue moonlight like mercury lamp during the war. Their heads will be crowned in hades.
They eat imaginary roast mutton, or digest crabs at the bottom of a dirty ditch in Bow Wow.
They cried in a street romance full of onions and inferior music.
They sat in despair, sucked into the darkness under the bridge, and climbed into their attic to build a grand piano.
They coughed on the sixth floor of Harlem wearing fire crowns, and the tuberculous sky was surrounded by theological orange orchards.
They scribbled and recited abstruse spells all night, and rock and roll left a nonsense for the cowardly morning.
They cook the lungs, hearts, hooves, tails, Luo Songtang and tortillas of rotting animals, dreaming of an abstract plant kingdom.
They got into the meat truck to look for eggs.
They threw their watches off the roof as an eternal vote to transcend time. Since then, the alarm clock has been ringing every day for ten years.
They cut their wrists three times and washed their hands. They were forced to open an antique shop, where they felt old and sad.
They suffered in Madison Avenue in plain flannel suits,