10/06/2014 - IN THE INTEREST OF FLAMING TRAILERS

In the interest of flaming trailers, we at the United Police Department want to state that we are in fact impersonating the Mafia and have been for eighty thousand days. It’s my entire fault because the insurance department breaks my dolly broker for the wardrobe with curly hair. I had no call to speak that way to the steamy eye of custody, you over easy bluer-than-blue shout-out to the Lesser Police Department. This is a jam because rights mean cigarettes in jail. He’s all yours, all your pocket fillers without following now from never just to look bad in a broken leg cast. Well done to all you crazy women. You’re a safe that keeps on saving, boy. Can I call my mom? How about my worried sick mother? Just this little exception, just this once. You’ll never get a power hour behind your bairn, you’ve been impersonating celebrities all your life and you certainly well know that’s a crime of passion. The poetry of the commando branch have taught me all that I need to know about pragmatics within the confines of West Philadelphia functionalism. The jokes on you, slick, you’re a horrid trespass of a man and the good woman standing behind you has lice.

It’ll be all right in the pervert’s mind, it’ll be just like those knife fights from your tween years only without the excessive amounts of alcohol consumed and the milkshakes splashed to cover up the stench. I counsel the heroes because they have leavings that look like seconds on a minute hand. The recordings library has a puncture, a perfect puncture according to the Welfare State Bureau who are corn-fed and should know about these things precisely because they are corn-fed. Rock has flounce by the ounce, they don’t just listen to it for the articulate hegemony or the marital relations to mythological sin. These are all just words in the end of their tail spin lives as the sentence becomes contrived and without feeling because of all the cape swishing and the mouthwash slugging that is inspired by most book dedications read in an altered state of Judaism.

You’re just a phone buzzing away, glowing its little screen out just for hairy-handed attention and brutish key-pushing while the grown man sizes you up for a sexy bear suit. This house that we’re reciting in is older than teeth and tongue all alike because it was built the moment before you were born and, of course, you managed that well in advance of anyone else in this syndicate. FEAST ON CARNAL KNOWLEDGE BY THE KERNEL, by the modicum. Leave the iota in the dust, nobody eats there anymore. Well, the losers do, they past through the drive-thru on their land-ready yachts and yawning abacus wheels. If I could eke out a carte blanche from this misspelling of existentialism then the policy chef would swallow herself and forget their olives, forget the cheesecake for afters. Some short stories are longer than others. Client privileges.