Skint Magazine: musings of piss poor writers in Chicago.
Example: When Irvine Welsh started writing he was skint, a chancer, a failed heroin addict. Now he's presumably rich and well-oiled and living in London.
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they don’t show letterman here at 10:30
so i went for a bike ride
on a bike i bought off a street vendor
for two plane cds
the streets here are unmarked
i rode my bike until the street stopped, fenced in now by a bunch of homes
a cat jumped out and went for my head
now more cats, cats of all colors sprang for my head
hemmingway’s laughing
i kick stood my bike and flipped the back wheel
pedalled the fuck out of there
fuckin flyin cats
riding away i saw a flying squirrel, above it hoverin was even a bigger flying thing
i once had a cat in the stateswe said goodbye as i said goodbye
lying on the floor of my 315,000 dollar condo
she stopped being friendly to visitors
after we spayed her too late
she used to crawl out of my closet all drowsy eyed
she’d rest on my lap as i’d record
on this floor, where puppet shows and cassette recordings with strangers were cut
on this last night she rested her black cat head on top of my gut
-edgars ledgzins
Van Gogh would have had a pre-paid cell phone.