by Tomorrow's Man
The bag smelled like an ungood food event had been going on for some time, but that did not keep the puppets from doing their ass-dances right down the pillow and into the pool. Someone would have to clean up their mess sooner or later, since by itself all it did was sit there and whimper, but no one was stopping anyone in the middle of an ass-dance.
I found today the characters for the next plot that will be the last movie ever made. stay tuned.
My next set of tattoos, on my torso, thighs, genitals, scalp, and arms, will be of dotted 'fold here' lines, the kind with the little half-scissors along them where you would cut the paper, so that my body can be transformed into an origami swan, or, perhaps, a cicada, so that I may buzz and buzz and buzz.
I collapsed into dreams as the laughing angel blew bubbles with the life's liquid that fountained from my core as I became the clasp on a string of pearls; I collapsed into dreams as a smoldering briquette lit by her heat and found myself the center of a sunset; I collapsed into dreams and became what everyone else has always dreamed about.
Little ladies and lovely things, parades of poppies and witch's wings, three more beers and I'm eaten alive, Mr. Banquet for mosquitoes practicing their nose-dives, a sunset boiling the tips of the trees and a place within the purple light meant for me, bugs be gone from my smile, I'd rather you didn't eat it for a while.
Dedicated to my purple shirt.
Does it mean I am Buddhist if I splash myself silly trying not to pee on the spider running around in the bottom of the urinal?
My cat's
been missing
a chunk
of his face,
today
I found
the chunk
of his face,
don't let
your cat
chew on the cable
wires.
Petite Mlle Muffet s'asseyait sur un tuffet celui qui l'enfer c'est-à-dire, et apparemment elle ait mangé des laits caillés et le petit lait qui me fait pas la merveille trop pourquoi elle était célibataire et tout seul se reposant dans les bois damnés, quand est le long venu une araignée et une grande surprise ont commencé à lui parler. Avez-vous jamais mangé les laits caillés et le petit lait? Voyage hors de votre tête, ils .
À moins que les laits caillés soient panés et cuits à la friteuse, nous parlons d'un certain petit déjeuner méchant des idiots, gens. Quoi qu'il en soit, quelque chose s'est produite avec elle et l'araignée, elle a probablement apporté la maison damnée de chose parce qu'évidemment elle ne pourrait pas avoir eu trop d'amis qui n'étaient pas totalement bizarres. L'extrémité, fin.
At the gas station I noticed there were instructions printed on the self-service pump. They were:
"Pump Operation Instructions
1. Follow instructions on screen below."
No kidding, that was it. First mankind put instructions on boxes of toothpicks (no kidding, go check), now this.
I beleive in evolution; obviously, mankind was the second-to-last step, with cheesecake being the higher being -- it does not need instructions on how to pick its teeth.
Okay, I admit it, I have never kissed a wallaby, but I do now come to admit something I have blushed uptightedly about for all of my decades alive: farting is so much fun I bet even Republicans get gas giggles.
I enjoy talking and sounding like a bag of smoke signals. I'm a riddle rapt with a goddess. My tongue sometimes mimics Routs 66, though more often it acts like an ecstasy-warped goldfish in a waterbed but hey, I'm good with that; it can tie your shoes. I'm inclined to divulge more, but words are taxing, priceless, more money than money. This feels like a librarian orgy at Fort Knox. Doesn't it?
I've Realized that when people think of me, I'd like them to think of me as slightly exotic -- nothing too shocking or stunning, just as containing enough rarity to have my personality strike a chord as unique in curious ways, the kind of person who can use the moon as a playground slide, if you will.
Will you?
There's a staff of leaopards who monitor the clinic out there on the veldt. The lions, they come in after a few days without a catch; the elephants lose their big toot, they wander down for some advice. The hyaenas, of course, get alarmed when they stop laughing, gotta go in for a talk. The rattlers will slither up when they start to sound like a tired tamborine. The gazelles even stop by, despite the slaver of the leopards, to dispute the spring in their high-step (the gazells never stop by at lunch-time). Once in a while a vampire bat will come by, usually after lapping at a poaching human, but of course, their problems stem more from who they've done it to than what they've done, the problem of everyone and everything that drinks from human.
But they all know when the Leopards Are IN.
That man mentioned a spotlight, that man a megaphone, that one mentioned a shotgun. The woman, there, rocks and calls in a warble the name of her child on the moon. Over there, a racquetball is experiencing a torture unknown to most. Beneath my left shoe is the unfortunate corpse of an ant, and beneath my right is nothing -- no pavement, no grass or ground, just a small hole a bit too small to fit a baseball that goes away to nowhere, goes away to a place where the child on the moon is laughing.
A Horrific Friday the 13th Tale
Spooky little peanut came into the store held up a gun and scared the bejeepers out of Old Niscuss, nearly made the old man wreck up another Fresh Freesia Scented Depends Undergarment, but instead of firing the oversized weapon (much bigger than the stick-arm Spooky little peanut was hefting it in) S.l.p. just runned right into the cooler and rolled around in the butter, shouting "Butter Butter Spooky Little Peanut Butter!" over and over until Gorshus, Old Niscuss's cocker spaniel that had to've been at least a quarter-century old, ambled over bad hips and all and shut that Spooky little peanut up with one toothless, slobbery chomp.
After that, Old Niscuss changed the name of the place to Gorshus's Spectacular General Store and switched to Ultra Sport Scented Depends Undergarments because the Fresh Freesia ones made him feel, well, flowery.
Thuh End.
Air like labia, Madison air wrapped round me, my first muggy day here, a thick drunk's breath of Summer, the first pang for A.C. and legs beading sweat stuck in corporate slacklegs, mint Blizzards for lunch, the fan waiting to share a night-long sigh when I shut out the lights tonight, goodbye winter, the labial air is finally here, we'll see you later this year, but for now be the dictionary definition of Bye Bye.
Muggy monkeys mug for mom's marble meatloaf; meanwhile, many Moroccan men mosh for Miss Muffet's Manhattan muff.
My, my.
Talk to me talk to me talk to me sound sound voice voice I need touch me touch me I need to be felt to be fed feel me please touch me talk to me talk to me feel me I'm here I'll always be touch me touch me touch me please talk to me talk to me I don't need to feed I need to hear to speak to be in a fist on my arm to be held to be your need touch me touch me talk to me talk to me please I'm here and here and in such need
'Dr. Seuss' (i.e., the Cat in the Hat) was a proctologist and I had worms. While prostrate in his office, he played a CD of "Night on Bald Mountain" very very loud. Luckily, when he went to get "pumps with stripes and salves on kites," I thought to jusp up and run out.
Then I got a cup of very good iced coffee.
I'm crying my eyes out, collapsing over on myself, the back of my head is on fire, a phoenix of flaming hair rising off of my scalp, water only makes it worse, where's my Taj Mahal! Someone hand it to me, quickly, quickly!!
Ahhh.
Chapatis, chutney, raite, basmati, vindaloo. There is no better food on Earth or in the greasy streets of Heaven.
Now to find some...
Should have put butter on my short list.
This day started with me spreading an event horizon across my whole wheat toast, and it seems my garnish has gotten quite popular with the ladies, gents, and utterly living as the Darkly Darker takes on over every hip kicker this side of the Ohio.
Good thing I broke the record for needing a pacemaker at 33. I ate the damned thing.
Inner reflection for about 19 days has revealed that I am indeed chocolate and a toadstool, a leaner shape of something coming, I'm sometimes soft as a breath in a hot breadbox and cool as a curious cheek thrown into the kiss mix, I'm seven dancing sunflowers, too; but mostly, I'm one drop of the ocean, one drop of that eternal.
Though I left the sea, I'm still a sand-melter when I want to see -- or when I want you to see -- so touch the glass of that box, touch me just a bit physically and all over in every other way, and welcome me back, back here, home, back home, the only place where happy to tears we can never go 'again.'
Ozone, the smell of the air just before a thunderclap, the scent of the kind of brightest death that deserves no less than applause, the frying-bacon-scent of a muse about to sneeze an epic into a human mind.
I am waiting for thunderstorms, I can not wait for the thunderstorms.
This is the voice of the day. This is the sound of the voice that speaks for the day. This is the strength -- the width and power -- of the voice that speaks today. This is the breath of today. This is the day that the voice speaks for you.
This is the day that the voice will never cease to speak to you.