Tuesday, December 27, 2011


Merely lying next to its video game-playing owner the big, slack-lipped dog
is sexually satiated. In its dreams: those skirmishes with a midget and the
hum of its engulfing glitter. Just like it, I hate chasing stationary objects.
All her and my spoons distanced themselves from everything temporal
by astral projecting on New Year's Eve through a glob of black ash.
Hellboy earned his skin with a healthy disregard for weight
of homemade pinkish stuff. Twisted dripping kraut & waves that
melt with his beard. She professed her love as a different
version of hellspot. An onion shat out by a yeti, becoming an island
unto itself. Dog thought midget lover's antlers' constant visible
pasta objectionable. I knew our spoons were working to build a
convincing impersonation of the neighbors' android maid.
The present, and the pleasant truth behind its tractor beam's garter
of smoke near the terminus of our living room. How were we to know
that when they came back ten years later, they'd be given to
talking to themselves in a near constant stream? As one entity?
Big and shiny? Exactly like the metallic maid? Loud! Fortunately no one
would listen anyway.

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