Jigsaw
jamboree and jelly for you and jelly for that bitch over there. You know the
one: the one with the wilting hairdo. I shot down her elk last night and talked
it to sleep. Eyes flickered as I tasered the right hind leg. I'm not a sadist:
I'm just heavenly bored.
My arm is
growing again and again and the thumb must just be shrinking by comparison. I
read the Atlas and it sounded like a dictionary orgasm over a pusillanimous
thesaurus. It made me bleed green Hindi
burgers. I ate and scoffed like a big little blimp of bloated jolly. Eye like
shelves for the shells.
Leave me be,
I'm being it. The tentacles are testing the good woman to my north side. She
will forgive the flared nostrils and the sorrowful way it looks over grafted
shoulders. The curtains feel a tremor, so switch petunias.
Writing is
like spewing a cat's golden lung. It's fantastical and tasty and worth a look
if you're that way inclined. Twigs become your friend if you become a writer;
they marry you if you slip them authorship. It's a sweet way to look at the
world without all that necessary skipping over hedge rows. Writing is for the
writer to do and not for the reader to read. They sometimes swap hats and
giggle at just how ridiculous it looks. I am Vlad the Impaler and I will hammer
your hat onto your crown. Brown bags are my grim-hearted servants. They are not
sack cloth nor should you expect them to be.
Pens are
paper oil that sticks to the hands of the wrinkled bastard. Violet sausages can
be found at the tip of the nib if you lick it in just the right way. The wrong
way involves a trip down memory lane on a fallen donkey of gripping
fastidiousness. I love the metaphor like a son who brings me kittens.
Oh, you
curtailing snakes and Pythagoras panthers! You shook my baby and left me the
daddy of a walking stick. It shames me to call 'mammy' as the wind burgeons the
roof tiles up south. My fingers form toes when my arms grow well. Dais are dias
and today is not a pastime for the Utopian loveliness. I have a cup that is
Africa and it is dripping all hell on Erasmus' grave.
Why can't I
forget Erasmus? He was in my head, retired to the cortex and wouldn't ever
leave the lobes behind. He is like a stain that recurs in your best laundry but
one that has a fragrant smell reminiscent of the early days of somebody
better. My heels shall crush Erasmus the
next time I see him wandering down my park lane. He will tumble on the pavement
slabs and the grass that lifts it high into the bowling clouds. The clouds are
cancerous but I expected that to be so. The clouds are happy in the way they
are ignorant of living thoughtfully again.
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