Shane Jesse Christmass
The year was 2005. Michael stood in the doorway. It was after midday. Tammy told talking about doctor shopping. Tammy would go to different doctors and get numerous prescriptions for the same drug, so she’d eventually have 20 prescriptions for the same drug. Tammy said the police were making this difficult to do now. Tammy is enterprising enough. She’ll work it out. Her girlfriend is a beauty. Her name is Erin. They’re in the hospital together. They admit themselves regularly.
It was March. There was no meaning, nothing deciphered, only ill sense developing. It was late afternoon. Jumping around Tammy felt her hand go through the plate glass behind her. She’d been messing around, bouncing and speaking with her hands. The whole window crashed around Tammy and Michael. Erin wasn’t around. The smashing of the window was harshness. Chaos continued when a nurse ran in. An orderly pulled Tammy away from the glass on the floor. Tammy didn’t know why her hand had gone through the window. Tammy didn’t know what was wrong. Tammy didn’t know why she was upset.
I like the poetry of Henri Chopin.
His work is a united expression, sensory disorientation, self-inflicted, the roughness of living, horrific, extremely effective, it lives inside lip-serving spoors, examples of sleep deprivation, and the great phrase of known adrenaline.
“La Digestion” was first recorded in 1972 at the author’s studio in Ingatestone.