|January 2003 / Volume Four / Issue One|
Is this going to be won of those boring
letters that starts out with promise or pumice,
leads on to lesser things, drains your favorite
cup of nectar of little gods:beer. I fear.
Has the fun gone out of your Mickey Mauser?
Of all the oatmeal-razorback beasts in your
sopho-clitoric anagrams, this is the worst:
eaten in ill-timed fashion, the nucleus of
Nabokov, a young girl in candy floss coat.
Wait! I have another message for you. You
offered to me a spine tingling palmistic
rapport, then cut me to the quick, with your cruel
déétente. As I am a man, it should seem too
simple a message, but please do, let it lie
|Return to January 2003|