Category: Comix

Susan Jane standing in the rain, eating sugar cane, feeling the pain. Susan Jane, she is beautifully insane, barefoot in the muddy road. Her mind is free, she swims in the sea. She’s reading the Sunday Comics, see; her soul is on a spree. She’s making love to me barefoot in the muddy road.

So I pulled your name out of my Rolodex, and I tore all your pictures in two, and I burned down the malt shop where we used to go just because it reminds me of you! That’s right, you ain’t gonna see me cryin’. I’m glad that you found somebody new…

Fifteen hours and fifteen days was all your fragile mind could take before it crashed to ground like broken glass. But I don’t mind.
I’m reading the Sunday Comics; feels like I’m almost done.

I been dipped in double meaning; I been stuck with static cling; Think I got a rupto-pac; Think I got a big mac attack — hold the pickles, hold the lettuce, special orders don’t upset us, all we as is that you let us serve it your way.

Once again, there are no humans who’ve escaped from a country outside the local deli. Not one soul loses their identity! Not one drop have I written! We’re always the people of the other — basic closed dialogue, grumpened, in place of phage! Why don’t you see where the rooftops wander? Why don’t you see where the rooftops of the world wander beyond, raised, tied together? It’s important!

With the birds and the beach and the lake and the river
You call and I come hither
When it’s day off and sun shine and everyone’s kind and time is slow and you know it in the Sunday Comix –
there is goodness in this life, goodness in this life.
Goodness in this life!

You viddy at the cheena, choodesny with the red rot libbilubbing litso-fitso. Devotchka watch her garbles Sunday with the Comics, split a ded from his deng deng. “Viddy viddy at the cheena! Girl loves me!”

No, there’s the Sunday Comics; I just get up and walk away. “If it ain’t broke, don’t try to fix…” Well, life’s supposed to be this way. Now everything is going wrong — I think I changed my mind again — I’m not sure if this is a song — I don’t even know what I’m saying —

In a painted foreground at the bottom is a famous anamorphic which, when viewed side-long, is revealed to be the Sunday Comics.

Words are few I have spoken, I could waste a thousand years. Sunday Comics, words are token;
come inside and catch my tears. You’ve been talking but, believe me, if it’s true you do not know.