PLEASE DON'T PUREE
THE ORANGE PEEL
(Why am I listening to you at all? I have to wonder.
I feel like Sam Wagstaff, kissing Robert Mapplethorpe.
Boy, do I hate that homosexual stuff. Look at it this
way, we were born to be brave. Here on 17th street,
where the edges turn into cliffs and the old river
runs slant-ways wild, we can look at pictures of
girls and see if that works for you instead. Yes, I
try to keep it steady. There's a lance at the head
of the factory chamber, and the doorway is
filled with snakes. All I ever find in the gutter,
over by the Javits Center, are used condoms
in the street. Why in the world would that be?)