A Vincent Gallo I

I found myself in Rio on the end of a Vincent Gallo movie.

In it a bunny hops along slow American worn jean seam kissing girls, leaving; until at the end he gets his cock sucked in a hotel room. [cry cry] You go on to find out she’s not really there after all, never was, and then begin thinking about how most men really do sad in silence, how they ought to be held and how me too in this very real moment of post-love longing.

Oh of horca, of visceral tragedy – he cums on words of infidelity – guess to be sexually comatose’d and on pure love is man’s folly, that and daydreams of drunk love drink then hate it but now all too tripped up so contra-drinks and dicks down, now all burned up on video tape, either that or some memories of barista in Valparaiso, either that or the realization that most men are torn. And that …

/sometimes its nice to remember
sometimes its nice to say a thing
but its never nice to look at film reviews/

Rio de Janeiro, Enero 2023