My dog hears
the atolls again. He says they taste of Western values with a scrub in the
middle from the left hand of Jesus. Little known fact: Jesus was left-handed
with both hands at the exact same time. Now that he's been out to sea for a few
weeks now, I'd imagine a story of my dog is well within order. My dog is a
godly creature with ears pricked to the sunrise and eyes forced towards yeoman
surprises. Catatonic love fests are constantly colliding within his runt skull
but he has no particular interpretation of love when based around sexual acts.
He grunts and humps the tie-dye cardigans of our city. I blindfold him shortly
before the act.
He has
goggles that I put him in when he isn't thinking and they slip over his irises
like a pair of lemon-tinted harbingers. The effects are profound in my taste
buds and I can't say why without the service of a policeman. My dog has little
tiny tinny teeth that gnaw into the state of mind that foolish children adopt
after seeing soft porn films accidentally with daddy in the back of a
neighbour's car. It's the wheels that concern me most.
My
over-baked puppy is born of the horizon in Hiroshima, hence his taste for foul
thunder. His ears are like the leafs on a calendar tilting on an ironing board
of gloom. Gloom is my dog's favourite word; it is the one he teaches to his cur
friends. His tail is a drain pipe for his soul and it leads directly to his
chasm paw.
My dog is
brown and silver where the spots should rise. He is a great wilderness of
lovely righteous creeper fields. I use his hair to thread the bobbins of my
soon-to-be enemies. I feed him an enema shortly before this so that I can
maximise the thrust of these twisted hairballs. Nevertheless he rules the room
that I was born in and watches over the little people that fill his right eye.
He is colour-blind and hopeless at crossword puzzles from scrawny hands. This
is usually when he sits on my desk and fortuitously wields my pen knife at the
oblong noses of the people who live just over our shoulders.
Neil and
Erasmus have petted my dog but they do not understand the complexity of this
action. They believe his hairs to be compressing under their sweet words but in
fact his hairs are retracting so they can readily bite the hand in case of
unwitting rescue. It bends their minds how he beds the bitches. This a world of
freedom for wrinkled sheets and doggy whispers.
My dog is
begging for the Sun God Ra to come down and tussle with him. Or maybe I should
ask Mr. Ra to tousle his tail and feed him some hydrogen treats that are good
for the bones of healthy wildebeests. My
dog is a bad influence but a deterrent to all children of the damning phone
call.
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