Brushed Nickle Ass Plug

The wasp is exhausted, but steps softly onto my fingernail. Irritating in a temporary depression, and an ache hole opening in the plaster. The wasp will be there forever. I try not to take things, because of the tolerance I gain. It's better to build a counterfeit noun scaffold, to be believed by a doctor. To get pulled into pain.

Balsam Tree Disaster

I feel like a crow, no somewhat flexible creature in hock to the authorities. I have no title or case full of high fidelity video. Something that happened, you know, an apology to an abuser. Everything is sensible. It still happened.

It still has a quality, an availability. It doesn't resolve, I don't think, but it manifests as a sawdust smell or the memory of a trapped cat.

I'm Sippin the Paste

Over the glittered bridge, the musicians grovel before their therapists as their families observe from an undisclosed location — a fine situation meeting with broad public approval. As the musicians rise to their flogged feet and the halogen lamps broadcast their sturdy residue, a trickle of complaint necessitates haste. Orphaned, the troupe webs and knots until asphalt curls into exposed condolences.

Pierced in the Knuckle

Well, the snowman shits himself silly. Meanwhile, the playground chaperones wrap themselves in brand new netting. I wave, but my acquaintance is inside a swollen nose.

Where did foolish Brenda buy the grey tubes? If I find out, I'll have to spin a mint lamp holster. Crap.

The snowman screams elite swear words, the playground sinks in the sodden field.

Bubble Eagle Fork

Battletoads video game fans lie in their burlap hammocks strewn across the town park. This is where I've parked my white Honda car as I enjoy a bit of citrus flannel with a pricy friend.

Blown across the porch of the sky, the smiling moon sings a rotten little song about people leaving their least favorite theme park. Shot with stone marbles, the moon drinks wormy taco juice.

Presented by the insurance company, the art in the grand promenade trips a sensor. My wrinkles leak the warning. I've seen burglars crease the soil until the old halo ejaculates. This is my impression of the installation. 

Simplified for Nurturer

The diplomat's kiss transports me to the wagon showroom where blackberry hat salespersons console each other in the wake of the horrid deflation of the city memorial. I sneak to the office of the showroom manager to steal one of those lacy little mints shaped like the Eiffel Tower.

When the procession begins, freezing glue weeps from the cracks in the walls. The dry nerves reach up from the butter tanks, gripping the ankles of the blackberry hat people; they stumble and go red-legged and powdered — like a very rich weave of spotted nut rind.

Tan Mug

Cramped raisins in the tub, Mr. Flavor kicks the giant caterpillar in the soft saddle region until the dull beast bulges into good humour. Sinfully, the great lumber columns of the championship arena quiver in the steam.

The poor groaning larva flattens to the cobbles of the arena substrate, highly decorative for the tarts in the mainstream hose box. Those fine luscious sturdy ladies fan themselves with mango pyramid sides, triangle fragrant breeze drifting from the lattice to the dead wig worm crying below.

Orange Memo

Make the shoe, chucked with thick coin syrup and sticky spoon creme. Don't want it lumpy, a scrambled wet element in the left hand and a devil's tee shirt in the right (oily and laughing). It's not half happening.

The crammed hard body is the seedless business. Puree the salt and mix with a chilled tube: floured like one's roommate, but not clapping like clamped yogurt.

Tastes good. Terrible flat piss trampling my biography. Lingual twitching as I dip the timepiece into peas.

Alone with Cranberry Dad

Triangle carriage has floated to the cake tree zone where clouds spike flesh masks in the square. A rubber hot flake of a pasta toy falls from the mistress's map tube. That is when the rope man twinkles into the market of oils. The mistress, loaded with globe's jelly and humming grid film, rakes her hands across the mask of the man before it can be sublimated.

Fritters in the Dark

At dusk, the slim gross teen boy takes a jacket from his nephew. The jacket is patched together with varied denim, stapled strips of even older jackets. There are like eighty or ninety jackets in the mix. Blueberry wood spikes in the breast pocket, a photo of a mousy dog in the inside pocket along with a piece of hickory gum. Now alone, our teen with his jacket spies an abandoned canoe in the parking lot and paints himself like a hyssop flower.

Gilded in the Maze

The house shaped like a fiddle smells like frozen egg yolks. The flower pots have faces painted on them. Miniature statuary, vulgar, bought from an estate sale, lurks in the foliage. Puddles on the walk blink with lonesome heat. The Realtor ® speaks with a cockney accent when he's making his wisecracks, and while I'm not yet seduced, I am waxing my fingertips. I am slipping discs of paper in the gap between the wall and the shabby wainscoting.

2021...

... shall proceed thusly:

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331
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353
and finally, a festive 359