Borbetomagus, at the empty bottle, and you and me

Don DIETRICH and Jim SAUTER in this weird little foxtrotomagus, touching the french kissing ends of saxaphones, while Donald Miller wheedled over his guitar horrible, terrifying files of numerous sizes, possibly COMBING the instrument into submission, pulling out the cord, looking at its tiny siler phallus and bemused, sticking it right back in again, like, a guy with a big dick on top of a woman who wasn't screaming enough. He performed his dead-skull grimace at a table with a wee candle like a San Diego seventies single bar, complete with red and purple cloth samples from Jo-anne fabrics covering the wobbley thing. The Mill, a cog of his name, like a New Bedford spinster, working his foot away at the pedal, producing spindles so frantically for nothing more than a bathroom break and it NEVER CAME. I saw you there in your glasses, and your button down shirt. I saw you leave when Brinkmann came on. I saw you dancing in your tanktop you borbetfaggus. I saw you getting a little fat. I saw you, you, the one who was drinking beer, and thinking really hard about NOISE MUSIC. Oh my god, I love music. Dot. Com. DON AND JIM HAVE BEEN FRIENDS SINCE CHILDHOOD, have you?