| You take somethin' like lovin', it's so nice and warm and you get to feelin' like jelly, an' then it ends up ru'nin' your insidesAh cain't understand it, Ah tell ya Ah think that man is wrongAh'm sick counta somepin elseLovin' ain't goin' to hurt a man
"It can," Red said
"Well, there's somepin all fugged up, that's all Ah can sayIt jus' don' make sense for a good thin' like that to end up hurtin' ya"Red, Ah swear the whole thing is confusin' as hell They walked back to their tents
The Time Machine:
WOODROW WILSON
THE INVINCIBLE
He was a big man about thirty with a fine mane of golden-brown hair and a healthy ruddy spacious face whose large features were formed cleanlyIncongruously, he wore a pair of round silver-rimmed glasses which gave him at first glance a studious or, at least, a methodical appearance"With all the gals Ah've had, Ah'll never forget that balenciaga designer little old piece," he said, wiping the back of his hand against his high sculptured forehead, sliding it up over his golden pompadour
Clich?s like lazy decadence, death and disease, monotony and violence, well up in your mindThe main street has assumed its tawdry prosperity with discomfort; it is hot and packed with people and the stores are small and dirtyLanguid and feverish, the girls walk by on thin legs, with painted faces, staring at the movie houses with gaudy placards, picking at the sore on their chin, squinting with their pale insolent eyes as the sun glares on the dirty asphalt and models the dust-filled pores of the trampled papers underfoot
A hundred yards away the back streets are green and lovely, and the foliage of the trees meets overheadThe houses are old and pleasant; you cross a bridge and look down on a tiny stream winding and twisting gently over chanel jewelry online some soft rounded rocks; there are the sounds of things growing and the soughing of the leaves in the swollen torpid May breezeA little farther on, there is always the small rotting mansion with its broken shutters, its peeling columns, and the dull black-gray of its walls like a tooth after the nerve has been killedThe mansion alters the loveliness of the streets, limns it with darker mortal lines
The grass enclosure in the center of the town square is deserted, and the statue of General Jackson stands on its pedestal and looks with calculation at the cannon balls pyramided in cement, the old cannon whose breech is missingBehind him the Negro quarter stretches out along the sandy roads into the farm lands
There, in the black ghetto, the shacks and two-room shanties sag on their stilts, the wood dry and splintered and dead, the rats and roaches scurrying across the omega seamaster watch sapless planksEverything withers in the heat
Toward the end, almost out in the country, the poor whites live in similar huts, hoping to graduate to the other side of town where the shoe clerks and the bank tellers and the mill foremen live in cubical houses along rigid streets where the trees are not old enough to cover the sky
Over it all hangs the torpid sullen breeze of May, stifling in the late spring
Some people feel only the heatWoodrow Wilson, almost sixteen, sprawls on a log along the sandy road, and drowses in the sunHis loins are warm and a lazy delight drifts along his bodyIn a couple hours Ah'll go see Sally AnnWarm smells, the image of teat and female pubes, tickle his nose with passionAh, man, Ah wish this here evenin' was overA man'll melt in the sun thinkin' about nookieHe sighs, moves his legs leisurely
Guess Pa's sleepin' it off
Behind him, on the chanel classic handbag slanting warped porch above the stilts, his father sleeps in a rusty swinging couch, his undershirt gathering soddenly about his chest
Ain't anyone can drink like PaHe giggles to himself'Cept me, come a year or twoGoddam, ain't anythin' a man wants to do but lie in the sun
Two colored boys walk by, leading a mule by the halter
Hey, you niggers, what's that mule's name?
The boys look up frightened and one of them rubs his foot in the dustJosephine, he mumblesHe chuckles easily to himselfMan, Ah'm glad Ah don' have to work todayHope Sally Ann don' find out Ah ain't nineteenShe like me anyway, she's a good little ole gal
A colored girl about eighteen walks past him, her bare feet swirling tiny clouds of dust before herUnder her sweater she wears no brassiere, and her pendulant breasts look very full and softShe has a round sensual face
He stares at her, and moves his legs chanel wallet ag |
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