Quote:
The guests were waiting for the poet to make his entrance. They were waiting for him to pick a fight. Or to defecate in the middle of the living room, on a Turkish carpet like the threadbare carpet from the Thousand and One Nights, a battered carpet that sometimes functioned as a mirror, reflecting all of us from below. I mean: it turned into a mirror at the command of our spasms. Neurochemical spasms. When the poet showed up, though, nothing happened.
Quote:
Oh, Rask, desperado power
My Rask, aficionado
I see you dead with a sad glower
Missing, striking a mighty blow
Our top town, dead confirming thee
Cuthalion, postless and free
Maybe next time you have the gun
Choose someone who wants to have fun