Friday, June 24, 2011

WHEN GOD CREATED ELVIS

They turned on each other, LSD and the fork used to scoop it up. The foot and the elusive garden soil Agent Cooper was busy raking in changing patterns of owl fart when you walked in on him. Awfully embarrassing, like catching your pancreas smoking oatmeal with delinquent explosions behind the mall's sixth, drooping eyelid. A fucking school bully. An invertebrate when taking a bath; an Ewok when suddenly angered.

Smelled by the keenest foot sole in search of a mate. In plain fracking sight, Satan's areolae exhibited hurt – though you could barely identify them by their sonic booms. Somewhere, a plague is getting some much-deserved reprieve. Inertia sensitive to the wheels whipping behind the snail's mudguard earlobes when Captain America with a heroic flourish drops his hearing aid onto the floorboard of the snail he'd tamed with a rapid succession of mute sneezes with acupunctural finesse along the snail's body, and a jab of the thumb into the direction he'd wanted the creature to, with warm-blooded locomotion, very slowly take him.

Your tongue, dreaming of being the primary conduit of the pretty lilt in your voice. Tonality, when I hit you hard in the face, activated proportionally to higher and higher concentrations of knuckle beard. For the money I paid to watch it squirm, lightning could have a few less potatoes clumped at the ends of its epilepsy. Made before it committed genocide, made before it retired to an armchair with a slingshot. The Bosnian parrot's warped penis's accuracy with a stone. It's not ordinary harassment. It's God's misidentification of His four and a half creations. Elvis in the first eleven seconds of his existence.

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