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walking down the street, he met another.To Kurt Lee's previous piece     skeinTo Kurt Lee's next piece


she slept inert moving only spontaneously when roused by nothing or the wind. she usually slept on her back and had a two legged hound lounging on top of her licking the constant blood flow dribbling out of her cunt. her bed was stained with piss, blood, beer, vomit. her hair was in such a state that her face couldn't be seen, her head was handicapped by the enormous outcropping of hair, it hadn't been cut in years, centipedes and earwigs often took residence there, in addition to being forlorn in her lousy condition. her bush too was a mess of brambles. her limbs were knotted and frail, covered with paper cuts. her one arm was mobile, slapping her body with a paper knife, skin would open in a series of tiny spread leg cunts where the paper knife hit. the wind blowing snippets of cool tea through the wounds her mad eyes fixed on a cumstained wall. a man upstairs had been paid to feed a plastic straw down through his window into hers, and attach it to a cooler full of beer, her sustenance. her companion was her open window. she never closed her eyes. one day the mailbox in the front of her house uprooted itself and walked on its four legs into the apartment building, up the stairs past oblivious tenets, a wino reading mad magazine, dead plant window. the mailbox pushed the door open, walked in and leapt on her bed. one of its front legs stood up pointing at her, and dragged itself over to her, sliding the post through her tufts of hair and into her cunt, collapsing over top of her angled with its mailslot end against the wall. it beat against her for a few hours she didn't look up but began a coughing fit when she came and the mailbox crawled off of her and tromped down the hall, the stairs, back into place. this happened every day. faded wall paper upon faded wallpaper peeling into mosquito petals unraveling dawn. i open a beer. i light a cigarette. i cut my arm. i spent a dollar. i take a bong hit. i light a second cigarette and set it in the ashtray, and watch it burn down to the filter. i return to my seat and continue to write. one day while the mailbox was reaming the bedridden wretch banging against the side of the wall plaster dust falling from the ceiling. the door opens enters the beer man from the room above. he runs at the mailbox with a ballcap on and picks it up over his head shaking it violently, letters pouring out of the mailslot, flinging the mailbox down out of the top window striking a person and knocking them unconscious onto the sidewalk. someone offers him a bite of a hot-dog. the beer man falls to his knees, picking up the letters letting them fall onto his face dollar bills. LOVE LETTERS! AOUWRS!MD THEIR ALL

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