Monday, July 16, 2012


I'm one of the few microbes in the bathhouse whose underbite betrays intelligent introspection. I'm beginning to think that homicide cloys. It creeps all over you. When you try to shake it off it merely forms a raised edge, then settles again. Commences creeping again … Homicide is acrid. It is the splat that just does not blend in. It looks a little unused. Everything around it seems healthily used. You can tell when something is unused because of a black grain of sand sealed in. It stays the same age. A blowfish wanted to remain the same age and to that end ingested industrial fertilizer and now sports an off-color scrotal coxcomb. It had gained no extra powers. The little girl who served the soccer mom Tide from her lemonade stand did inadvertently impart a horrific power to the soccer mom, by giving the soccer mom Pink Eye, actually the Tide she ingested did, which she'd bought from the little girl, with which she's 'panning,' quite brawnily, not looking in the normal sense but sort of roving, the eye does, in its pink rim, and tearing objects free of their natural platforms when the Eye passes over them. It must close. Then open again. Waking is mending.

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