Tenderer than the tiniest tangerine and more available than bargain basement fried rice, one can only surmise that the weight of this whole Edgar-spinning habaƱero factory would equal that of a mid-grade mouse (at least after said mouse has purged itself of the latest fad diet food). If that’s not the case, then the sabotage worked its wonders once again (God bless us all) and our strange liquidation may have been for naught. But let’s not think about such treachery at this moment–heaven will be waiting for us upon the cessation of our final scruples. I’m telling you, this must be true. Why else would I even bother placating you? Death amounts to the complete reversal of mortal avarice, I’ve been told. By a reliable source, mind you. Now, I can’t go around blabbing about the destinations of our celestial bodies and not buy you a drink. That would be a crime. Manhattan for you? Never had one?! This will be interesting.
Tag: Abstract
CIV
Equal parts snickering and jibbering, flouncing and denouncing, partying and Martying and sipping and tipping have led us to this culminating moment, and this revelatory juncture alone will fix us up with the karmic indifference we should inevitably come to view as necessary, should we ever put on roller skates and glide down the lakeshore on the manmade path designed for smooth wheeled transport (nothing more, nothing less). That day will come only when we’ve reached the conclusion that our soul clarity is above average, and yadda yadda yadda, here’s some more hippy dippy rhetoric to be restricted to only eight select individuals on the planet, each division roughly the equivalent of a slice of a New York pie and only half as appetizing. The other people who occupy space on our same plane of existence will only surmise their positions on the karmic totem pole and wander–trudge–through the rest of the week with no common purpose readily apparent to them, lost to be found once the tide comes in.
Chemical Laundrymates
Wee Chemical Laundrymates
skip under extension cord hammocks,
content to while away their youth
in an mundane–and rather uncouth–fashion.
The parents never stuck around
to check the progression of their progeny,
evolution’s made their job
easier than most folks’.
All they have to do
is ensure the forward momentum
of their species, then they can
vacation around the world
without a care to be found,
living out their golden years with zeal
renting catamarans and pontoons.
They’re seemingly always on open water,
they seek it out instinctually
and with a vengeance, especially
when their days of procreation have ceased.
If it ever came down
to floating in a pond
versus protecting offspring from predators,
recreation would win every time.
Creative for Longer
But back to the matter at hand:
we must find a way to figure out
the internal mechanism
that allows us to be creative
for longer than four seconds at a time!
Five seconds would be an improvement,
though we will certainly settle
for four and a half if necessary.
Sorry, Crowface
Stitch witch Fernandez, folly smell polly otter britches for the love of how many lost sailors in the sea of temerity and sometimes regretful lust? Who doesn’t associate sailors with regretful lust these days anyway? Those poor ladies and gents take a pill and forget their troubled soda fountain fantasies, being king and queen at the prom, being king and queen at the prison camp, being king and queen at nothing at all. But they must tell themselves they are king and queen at everything in particular, or the PTSD will sink in, groaning bottlecaps of philosophy until there’s nothing left to them and to all their dedicated brethren, shackled to jingle bell fury (not unlike bongo fury, just around the Winter months with tinsel). Oh, those poor intrepid wanderers of the human invertebrate psyche, those who develop thoughts according to their predestiny, their density assured for at least three tours of duty. And nobody cares anyway. They’re all wondering how they can somehow stand out amongst the other clowns, the sick practitioners of boredom for aesthetics’ sake, those poor intrepid sailors who think they’re taking life by the horns; they don’t understand.
What? Oh, nothing. I was just sharpening a shoehorn and calling it my mother. Move along, nothing to see here, crowface. I’m sorry, crowface is insensitive. Raven countenance suits you better? Okay, I’ll remember that from now on.
Thinking Such Lovely Sights
Powdered telltale foghorns love our indecisions, oh don’t they though? They laugh at us through cheeky grins of early incandescence, pretty little snitches bitching anyway they may for the sake of everything larger than the scale of a matchbox car. Ha, if only they knew the folly of thinking such lovely sights and telling such lovely frights to the neighbors.
Detail II
WHARVED 