Then creation stole her companion. Who'd been busy shaving.
Creation couldn't work its own fucking jaw – nor its captivating
number of appendages. Which could at once torture a puppy
and speak like a calculator. Some smoke vibrating
in empty insect rooms.
Creation of the broken ballet, from now on – enjoying the
same horrible freedom as, but less stable on their legs than,
the porn star's haunting jello implant. Perceivable pant screws;
walking down the street with all the kinks of a flatworm.
He put a doormat where his chin was, to cover up the ugliness.
He trimmed the hairs of the doormat. Cruelly, she told him:
“Gardening the doormat leads to much
more coarseness than a good shave...”
She finds him less tempting but more mysterious since
that last accident, which removed his chin and half
of his earlobe, and made him talk in parables: warning in
a prophetic voice to be afraid of the toilet
that didn't flush. Of the drooling hamster head
disembodied more mysteriously, this time.
Chinese whispers more bouncily weave their
way from the Tesla telephone mouthpiece
to the blank keyhole earpiece. “Monk trimming his pubes”
was the original message but the one received
by the monster was “Diaries of the Taco's lost pube”.