This climate change was triggered by a group of old biddies’ three-day birthday vigil. Do they also want to help out, and get the stretch-pants panorama back on its feet? ‘You can be a bundled up human mind,’ one says, ‘to perceive the pleats in the smutty backyard’s heartbeats.’ They exchange pleasantries for some time, time itself overtakes them, seasons, geodesic shifts, until the urine of polar bears freezes on their upper lips.
Green teleportation takes Evel Knievel from the rear, but it only rapes the cracks in his heartbreak. It has a thing for concrete, not the failure of distances and the whine of motorcycle chains. Actually it meant to catch something that fell when he jumped over the Grand Canyon on his super-bike. Did it sound like a water well hiccupping? Whatever it was, it was lost forever.
Mickey Mouse has fangs. She was on the phone with the tamer and he told her to hold him still on the ground until he stopped squirming and screeching like a wild animal. He was on his way. He got lost in space. It took him over six hours to find his way back. Space is a network of penny arcade tapestry. He arrived flustered and out of breath. His face drained with shock at the sight of Mickey Mouse. It felt as though his mind had been pruning under the shower too long. His red neck had been crammed in a bottle and expanded until a pornographic light went on somewhere. Somewhere cold. Somewhere where there weren’t any humans, only stupidly-named magic believed in by the dirty night and the rubber bands that stretched and snapped dustily and with the smell of burning sweat to the sound of magic’s own stupid name. Mickey Mouse’s face had seemingly passed through the same Ice Age.
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