Armadillo and Dildo. Alcoholic Romance

Blur of starshine, sloppy, merciful. Littered pavements, your voice is echoed by ill-twisted skyscrapers, and you don’t recognize it anymore. Sounds pour on you. Piano, untuned, likely on purpose, indistinguishable from a somewhat sexy young female who’s throat is permanently sore but she’s still singing, and you know her favorite drink is brandy, because she looks exactly like a glass of brandy with no ice. And whispers. Whispers louder than most screams, they’re haunting. Naughty subway smells. What the hell you’re talking about, Sanchez? I’m talking about that place, that place no man stops by. Place for intrigue and martyrdom, for fervor, rhymes, rage.

They met being tipsy. Just tipsy, not drunk.

They thought of each other, “He looks likes a skunk”

Cause, actually, both of them looked at a skunk.

They were surrounded by skunks. Getting drunk

In a skunktown is never easy but what you’re gonna do? Junk

Is glowing spectacularly in the moonlight.
And don’t give me this shit, hear me? I’d been there, and no other man had. I saw it. It was cloaked in disarray, in grace. It was divine, and I don’t care what you or anybody thinks. Their love was pure, flawless. And if you tell me, romances should be more romantic, Sanchez, your heartless soul will burn in hell, I swear.