hot hot summer-this is the end.

--> In bed throwing filthy dirty moves. Worshipping at the altar. The musical altar that is. Physical activities involves dancing and walking to and from. The best action I've ever had. Something pretty (but) interesting. Balloon fun you never grow out of. Indie meat markets. Infested with nons. It’s never the most obvious songs. Scanning the queue for safe ones. Ones we'd keep. Also when we dance we see eye to eye. Be my Polly pocket. So teeny weenie I could fold her up and put her in my purse and unfold her when I need a little thrill. They know not what they execute and I know not how much I create in my head. Oh and he might just be a keeper but in some other sense he makes me unwind oh yeah he makes me go out for the fifth night in a row. Lend me some money and some sleep. Keep going for the love of it. Oh how prepossessing it feels. Every minute detail joins and seals the beautiful fabric they inadvertently created. They know not what they do to me and I'll worship that and be thankful for that so long as I can. All the smiles and empty gazes. I watch the boys placing words in each others ears. One delicately sweeps his hair from his sullen face. The other looks dazedly unconcerned. I'd sneakily watch them from the corner of my big swollen eyes in suspense for the next treat. Will I ever know if Kat deserves a license to DJ? Nazi couples. Two-pound mixers. Dolled up monsters and we met on the dance floor again. The musical lubrication makes me slip and slide and talk and smile as I did. The accelerating songs cause spasms in my spine until the words are in my eyes and the music's in my mouth. Some days the music lubricates our every move. I think it’s the cohesive force and it's in between our fingers and it's sealed into the cracks on the 7" records and its folded in the creases in the flyers. It's such a curiously consuming construct.