it doesn't matter if Prince Charles falls off his horse or that the hummingbird is so seldom seen or that we are too senseless to go insane. coffee. give us more of that NOTHING coffee.
2 p.m. beer nothing matters but flopping on a mattress with cheap dreams and a beer as the leaves die and the horses die and the landladies stare in the halls; brisk the music of pulled shades, a last man's cave in an eternity of swarm and explosion; nothing but the dripping sink, the empty bottle, euphoria, youth fenced in, stabbed and shaven, taught words propped up to die.
all that I know is that I believe in the sound of music and the running of a horse. all else is squabble.
Love is a horse with a broken leg trying to stand while 45,000 people watch.
A man who can beat the horses can do anything he makes up his mind to do.
Keep your money in your pocket. Or bet it on a good horse.
I'll get back to the whores and the horses and the booze, while there's time.
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