Fuck women in Trieste
Hookers wanting chat with people Mother looking for friends that are Vegetarians, artistic.
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The great Alps below our plane speak of green vegetable and raw stone, but we are meat, our plane is made of meat and our passports and compass are meat. We cruise silently and noisily over the mountains and drop down to long delta fields and a floating city, a headlong rush, my eye shaking; in a flash we fly from the Alps to a fabled city floating on the sea and while we sip beer on the sunlit canals of Venice we are offered small square meat snacks redolent of marrow and pepper, we are tiny carnivores by the sea exploring networks of meat.
The giant goateed mob is vacuumed away while the Pearl Jam show is on, the town a strange fiction without them, oddly blank, which I enjoy, but I vaguely dread the return of the hipsters. A couple stops me to ask where can they rent a car in Trieste, they says it is impossible to rent a car on a Saturday. But there is meat to be had, meat goes after me, red meat blurred, nature red in tooth and fang at every table by canal or beach, we are sin eaters, we are fanboys investing in fang derivatives in a carnal season, we negotiate mysteries of red meat, blue meat, brisket, flank, belly, ribs, tripe, giblets, blood pudding, sweetmeats, brain cheese.
What do these words mean? I have no idea, these body parts strange and fragrant as the stock market. In Mittel Europa hover secret plateaus and rifts and rings of purple mountains. We do meat, meet meat, the weather is meat, we eat owl, snake and snake oil, pork belly marinated in sherry, we fly into meat!
Trains transform us, trains roll into cities of tin, cities of stucco, cities of meat, Europe is meat, meat on the edge of our seat. In Slovenia and Croatia giant silver platters given to me, three feet long and heaped with meat, and no vegetables save a sprig of parsley.
