a rose is a ripping off scraps of flesh, eagle-owl
the lamb-eating vulture, lovely as the law vanished into higher strata
the alcoholic's trembling hand, dissappeared on the horizon,
for i no longer knew what i was doing
text bastardized from paul knight's translation of lautréamont's
my copy found in a trash bin in sf in 97, by the tower of light
who passed it on to me as he had it
god bless his soul, maybe i remember it wrong and it was just
in the street, i think with colin wilson's the outsider and a few
other life changing books.
this scenario reads like poetry from corman's a bucket of blood....