Wednesday, August 18, 2004
The Boston Death Wave
That Death Wave is everywhere. I saw it down on Washington, smiling at me. You try to run but it’s still right there, soaking in the atmosphere. I’m in this park with this chick I know and we’re standing with a goose and then, fuck, Death Wave! I had to drop my churro. I tried to strangle it, but you can’t strangle it. You can’t strangle the Boston Death Wave. It put a dent in my foot the size of my shoe. I grabbed it by the collarbone and started smacking, but it threw me in the water and made off with my mutton. The Death Wave is wily.
In Italy they have a name for it. The Boston Death Wave took over most of Allston and bummed everyone out. It ate everybody’s security deposits and oozed football. It smelled like a patriot and could never pronounce even the most slightly ethnic sounding name. The Death Wave tried to join an anarchist’s society but they all thought it was a cop. It quit it’s job at Domino’s after they instituted a delivery fee and cut the drivers’ pay. The Death Wave thought about the country a lot, and the celebrities, and it’s parents back home. It wasn’t happy, and it didn’t know why.
On a vacation to Australia the Boston Death Wave bought pornography for the very first time.
Eventually the Boston Death Wave graduated, and moved out of Allston. It got a job in New York and rented a place in Brooklyn. People stopped calling it the Boston Death Wave. It met somebody special, settled down in Jersey, had some kids. It’s new friends called him Earl, Earl Death Wave. It was still afraid of sex and still hated dogs but it no longer had to deal with all those snakes. The Boston Death Wave had been domesticated, and no longer tussled with all makes of humanity in the darkness of the early morning hours of the harvest season. It was still kind of a dick, though.
That Death Wave is everywhere. I saw it down on Washington, smiling at me. You try to run but it’s still right there, soaking in the atmosphere. I’m in this park with this chick I know and we’re standing with a goose and then, fuck, Death Wave! I had to drop my churro. I tried to strangle it, but you can’t strangle it. You can’t strangle the Boston Death Wave. It put a dent in my foot the size of my shoe. I grabbed it by the collarbone and started smacking, but it threw me in the water and made off with my mutton. The Death Wave is wily.
In Italy they have a name for it. The Boston Death Wave took over most of Allston and bummed everyone out. It ate everybody’s security deposits and oozed football. It smelled like a patriot and could never pronounce even the most slightly ethnic sounding name. The Death Wave tried to join an anarchist’s society but they all thought it was a cop. It quit it’s job at Domino’s after they instituted a delivery fee and cut the drivers’ pay. The Death Wave thought about the country a lot, and the celebrities, and it’s parents back home. It wasn’t happy, and it didn’t know why.
On a vacation to Australia the Boston Death Wave bought pornography for the very first time.
Eventually the Boston Death Wave graduated, and moved out of Allston. It got a job in New York and rented a place in Brooklyn. People stopped calling it the Boston Death Wave. It met somebody special, settled down in Jersey, had some kids. It’s new friends called him Earl, Earl Death Wave. It was still afraid of sex and still hated dogs but it no longer had to deal with all those snakes. The Boston Death Wave had been domesticated, and no longer tussled with all makes of humanity in the darkness of the early morning hours of the harvest season. It was still kind of a dick, though.
