April ovary violations: these
are all that is wrong with this particular piece. It tastes of bile and
unnecessary ridicule and therefore we just cannot sell it to the primary
audience. I'm sorry Mr. Johnson but your wife can't get into this: she made
donuts and didn't give the receipt back to us in time. Prickly Beard and I do
not wish to hear anymore about this and we really must say that your tone of
voice is getting most tiresome. The diaphragms do not and cannot belong to you
but, if you ask, we can feed you them in little bits. The corners maybe. Now,
now, Mr. Johnson you have so many qualms today and your child is starting to
holler all over the shop. He's just using the feather duster now to mop up the
gravy. He says he'll bring it how and wring your neck with it. We hope that this
won't become too much of a problem. Outstanding. The stock numbers? Oh, the
stock numbers are rising nicely. We'll be getting the full reports tomorrow and
the ring binders will return next Thursday. They are not your jurisdiction
anymore. Play fair, Mr. Johnson. Our lawyers are all out to dinner and they
refuse to sing for our trepidations. Warts and all. We include that too, but
not as part of the package your sent for. You'll just have to deal with it, Mr.
Johnson. You'll just have to send us another payment, regardless of the
wallpaper funding. I'm hanging up now, Mr. J. Doofus is not a practical term in
this situation but you are starting to act like one, very much so. Blasphemy is
just another word for forage, you are threatening the right people but in the
wrong way. That's susceptibility for you. Afraid I have to go now, Mr. Johnson.
Your child is burning the soup. Run along now. There.
Bruises. Wet bruises the shape
of my mother's nipple. I'm not a deviant, I am an artist. I shake the hands as
you shook the hands, all left and never right. Sorry to bring you down with the
details again but that's me. We are in the know, you and I. Sterile as the wet
flesh. Empty as the crossing guard scooping up his loose change. I sicken
myself with the thought of tomorrow. Where will I be? How incompetent will I
become? What shall I do to pass the idle hour? Which hours are most idle? Can I
open the apron and ask again? Let me past. The bruises are starting to bleed and
snarl. Like bovine heart attacks. Swatches of my love. The plates belch
exclamation marks: I shall not demonstrate as long as I live. Walk home with
her, I'll snatch a taxi with my ankle, listen to it as it groans. Going home.
Sleep tonight. Sleep with the lights somewhere. Me and my red hair and my
worries about the long walks down childish corridors. Wait for me and see what
I bring back.
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