Sunday, February 20, 2005

magna carta

i. my butt itches

i buy 10 rolls of toilet paper to feel mundane and appeased. please please please. don’t squeeze the duck. oh fuck. my chew toy used to bring me luck. i threw the throw rug across the room. it rained dust like powdered custard. mustard spots sprinkle the dishes in the sink. flecks of pink cat food calcify on the brink of becoming rock. my socks too will calcify in time. hush. even compassion will crackle when crushed. i’m bushed. time to water my neo-fuscist tendencies. (no i’m not a fusspot)

this burglary hones my slurp
i make soup with onion broth
burped (in bucolic overtones)
over burning bukowski tomes
drowned in drink and sloth

ii. wigwams warm my wagpole

i shop like anyone’s business shops when anyone shops at my business. i take the bus. milk drinkers make a fuss. political correctness makes me feel erect. my sausages are hickory smoked. come here bitch-ass and bring my rope. i fiddle with borders and cut the tags. glossy mags make help me feel whole. roads are better sloped. the pope rings my phone. control control he croons, coughing occasionally for effect. he swoons my prefect. perfect. let’s flip this reject regent reflex.

iii. ichthyologist’s lament

parched arched wriggling a swansong – or even a sonnet. did someone forget my fishnet bonnet?

iv. molotov made one hell of a cocktail

i’m not much for ranting i prefer pants panting rolled into cuffs at my ankles so spank me, loretta. i like salad with feta. frank rants get chicks by the busload (if they are old and asleep). don’t goad me into a false sense of abuse. i’d rather burn some jiffy pop than brake your caboose.

v. how to disseminate your decolletage

i’m not one to make you stumble over this ass. pass the gas station, i’m full. no, this is hardly bull (you cow). i won’t stand for twiddling. perhaps a tweak. speak to me of political dualism while i flip your flapjacks, you rag bag. flag it, i can’t be fagged.

vi. curtain cacophony

melrose place was once a symbol of the failure of single life. now titans warps time. slime lubricates every smile. it dribbles the chin like a simile.

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