Richard Brautigan

Richard Brautigan

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Richard Gary Brautigan (January 30, 1935 – ca. September 16, 1984) was an American novelist, poet, and short story writer. His work often clinically and surrealistically employs black comedy, parody, and satire, with emotionally blunt prose describing pastoral American life intertwining with technological progress.
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At 1:30 in the morning a fart smells like a marriage betweenan avocado and a fish head
I have to get out of bedto write this down withoutmy glasses on
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The sweet juices of your mouthare like castles bathed in honey
I've never had it done so gently before
You have put a circle of castlesaround my penis and you swirl themlike sunlight on the wings of birds
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The Galilee
Part
Baudelaire wasdriving a Model Aacross Galilee
He picked up ahitch-hiker
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I don't know what it is, but I distrust myself when I start to like a girl a lot
It makes me nervous
I don't say the right things or perhaps I start to examine, evaluate, compute what I am saying
If I say, "Do you think it's go...
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I walked across the park to the fever monument
It was in the center of a glass square surrounded by red flowers and fountains
The monument was in the shape of a sea horse and the plaque
We got hot and died
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HE
CK
The creek was made narrow by little green trees that grewtoo close together
The creek was like 12, 845 telephonebooths in a row with high Victorian ceilings and all the doorstaken off and all the backs of the booths knocked out
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Hinged to forgetfulness like a door, she slowly closed out of sight, and she was the woman I loved, but too many times she slept like a mechanical deer in my caresses, and I ached in the metal silence of her dreams
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Ah,you're just a copyof all the candy barsI've ever eaten
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The petals of the vagina unfoldlike Christopher Columbustaking off his shoes
Is there anything more beautifulthan the bow of a shiptouching a new world
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I like to think (andthe sooner the better
)of a cybernetic meadowwhere mammals and computerslive together in mutuallyprogramming harmonylike pure watertouching clear sky
I like to think(right now, please
)of a cybernetic forestfille...
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I feel horrible
She doesn't love me and I wander aroundlike a sewing machinethat's just finished sewinga turd to a garbage can lid
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It's nightand a numbered beautylapses at the wind,chortles with the branches of a tree,  giggles,plays shadow dancewith a dead kite,cajoles affectionfrom falling leaves,and knows four other things
One is the colorof your hair
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SS
OR
UT
NG         IN
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Forsaken, fucking in the cold, eating each other, lost runny noses, complaining all the time like so many people that we know
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There are no postage stamps that send lettersback to England three centuries ago,no postage stamps that make letterstravel back until the grave hasn't been dug yet,and John Donne stands looking out the window,it is just beginning to rain this Apri...
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