One mascot crimps the cosmetics while a second winds a line of dog ornaments around a synthetic column.
Watching, eating Oreo cookies, Mrs. Pool pranks haughty ass air on the stained porch. Old planks of shredded dough crack like dung boards invented accidentally. This is how an afternoon's leisures are forgiven.
A couple under a castle (or a bridge?) stoops down for hand cup water. Eyes to the worm cloud, he feels the same as a decaying vine lost to its roots. She forgets the only trap she ever fell for. They look through small tubes to find a communication from the contractors they hired to bend the incantations of their legal advisors.
Cranky comic book brat curls her hair with dreadful creamed potion, sulking over the loss of another delicate companion. Her eyes braided, she swaps relics with a neighboring slipper-soled stick figure. Soon, the uncanny twitch will begin again and she will ooze into the office, knowledgeable but not sure. Not yet.
Soaked and poked with the tar prod, you conjure a sensation of shriveled lust. How glorious were the slappy twistings and livid palpitations of your years in service. Diagonal shadows on the tiles, wheezing whispers from under the door.
You are chapped here, stepping gingerly between the cardboard-shaped plant stumps in the courtyard. You think you can hear the rustle grind of bean parasites, but it may only be the ceiling fan.
Our neighborhood was a clam's breath in an old pot, houses like unpopular candies tasted once and discarded. The gourd shaped rock in the middle of the cul-de-sac stole ambitions and curiosities from us.
My neighbors owned wagons and boots, hoses and saws, blades for flesh and turf. We read each other's diaries.
I was sent away in a cold carriage with a tissue scan drive under my seat. I had a little bit of everyone.
I found my chin in the seaweed pile on the corrugated metal. It was poked by spare wristwatch hands and looked good for its age, but gnawed and corroded all the same. A priest gave me a trifold brochure for a clinic where I could have it replaced with a hungry man's heel.
The sea bird cried about its pretzel. Still, the towers of crates in the warm light made everyone feel easy, chosen. I strummed the ocean membrane and ate the seeds I bought.
A turtle ate an entire tree in one meal this weekend. Everything went in, lichens and railroad spikes and kites and baby owls and old empty nests. A turtle in the weather of the weekend made one whole tree its meal.
The guy watching the turtle eat the tree sat atop a gold Ford Bronco with a towel under his butt. His girlfriend Laura arrived at night with bags of jingling spice wafers.
Laura opened a bottle factory with a large inheritance when she was a college undergrad. The bottles full of soap spill premium good liquid on the blue fake shoes her boyfriend wears at work.
Laura taught positive attitude to dancing parents, stifled in linoleum crust and hidden like digital fly wings. Now she can relax while a turtle devours a whole tree.
None can see the junkyard in this olive colored light.
Only three former mayors of this city have been divorced. And they dine together, weekly, at the Momentary Summit Family Restaurant.
From there, they see the chooglin sprawl of the trashplanes. They see it just fine.
The big guy with the tray of prepared meats has been paid for this work for seven years and he spends that money on corn colored pants. Corn is cooked by the chef too.
The chef wears fake blue shoes and has been doused in zigzag condiments — part of his education, you know.
A fading airman loses his lunch and the control panel lights up like Independence Day seen from a high drone. The sky loses its grip on the fine homemade plane.
Now the fields of rubbish suck in the doomed vehicle and its addled pilot, smack of aluminum slap rot in the milky humid night.
Up in the two star restaurant the gathered mayors and the big meat tray man in maize trousers watch the desperate descent and the ensuing fluctuation's easy glow, but feel that it is theirs alone — their private tragedy, their delightful pocket death.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.