Her Adhesion and Ours

Brave undressed people in sealed bags flit around wetlands eating eyes. They experience a eureka moment when they pick up a few knotted ornaments in the puddles. When they toss these things they found into the proper receptacle, they hear a sexy kind of guitar sound, like damaging cosmic radiation.

Now scientists say the people could have been behind a vast array of colourful atmospheric changes.

Won't Wish for a Block Patty

Lose the buff lady pants and then we will talk. Drop that huffy huff persona if u want to be my perfect friend. I can see ur smashed up soul gas inside ur skull pockets and I actually do like what it looks like but unless u stop behaving like a little bit of a weird worm I don't even think I'll bother doing the thing I wanna do.

I would take a big pump and suck the soul gas from ur bony globe and huff it into my lungs to feel the prickly purchase of ur ghost mouth inside me. U can't probably figure out how to escape my organs.

Tilt Away From the Blade

Yoga legs stacked too tall wobble and hum across from the municipal complex. Threatened, strawberry jam guys lope in the new medieval fashion. Potential coital participants color themselves duly impressed.

A flat gray guy from Boise grips tight the loosely baroque garments his charming papa brought back from a land full of spirit orbs. Stripped and sandblasted bone leg men smear squished lipstick on their lovely bods until they are allowed to do the City Squid Dance. 

A disaster inside the municipal complex interrupts the good times and behind their masks the goofy guys trickle.

Cure Your Garments

As soon as father dies, we will gather with the rest of our seven siblings to perform a song he wrote. None of us has the complete musical notation, only fragments sealed in coded cylinders held as pendants on our chests. 

The lyrics will be conveyed during the reading of the last will and testament. The lawyer, a kind-eyed woman of Portuguese descent with a taste for leather and gleaming hubcaps, will mostly not cry during the affair. The throbby luminance of a bleeding plastic gum steak will finally meet us, eye to eye and reeking of hubris. 

The Backwards Nozzle

Guilty of craven acts of servile leisure, I reduce myself to a sickly cream. A bruise on my hot curvy ass reminds me of a cranky lover. And a swirling cursive name on one of my juicy natural titties reminds me of the kindness of kinfolk.

I find myself a new name. Now something in me trembles. I am literally foam. 

Six Hissy Fits Before the Soap Release

Gush and fume in a drawer. 

Hunt for a few bronze wafers in a long silent romance. 

When the charred hair whispers, slip away from your relations and teach yourself fake spells from a self-published fantasy novel. 

Then soak your own brain in ostrich egg albumen and watch your black eyelids flutter to the carerra marble countertop in this contemporary kitchen.

Clustered Dashboards

Striped papers indicate a habitual grip on actual pathogens. Stinking oily banisters indicate a cessation of fabric mergers. Everything else is quite simply, prismatic metallurgy.

Free and twitching, my inheritance is slipping between some other guys lips.

Mesh Prep Liquors

Ochre fingers ask what the humming dials of the garment containment unit indicate. Their peculiarities hold us rapt.

Plucked like dripping cuffs of blossom tops or unintended corduroy spikes, the therapist, his spouse, and their lusty interlocutor surround themselves and each other with loose fumes.

Loose fumes asking for words and words evaporating in the miniature cavity. Not stopping anytime soon, I'm afraid.

Agreed on Fluorescence

Father reconstructed the conical structure, complete with the jaw-shaped indentation in the floor. Basically he remembered all of the features and created it in a fashion that we feel possesses some measure of fidelity. His resources are considerable so it's not surprising, what he's done. I guess that pretty much the way we justify our endorsement is that we respect hard work and the will to complete a complicated task.

The ultimate tribute will be a book of high-resolution photography. Exterior, interior, schematic diagrams: all celebrating in sensual colour the nature of the conical structure that both terrorizes and comforts us. The surprising hexagonal tiles, the fish scales hung on minute threads of equine follicles, the thing with the mammal inside. All of this adds up to a portrait of a man seen through a mirrored funnel. Occasionally cannibalistic, the gathered siblings compliment each other in earthy pastels.

Clawed Eclairs

There's a net made of guitar strings in the yard. There's a lot of bent staples that were pulled out of some city reports. There's also a bogus book of sheet music that isn't an heirloom. In blue phones, eyes closed, I can actually feel the hair getting longer in my face.

PHP Pointers at Hardee's

Wobbly on desiccated legs, a proud father of three dictates his grocery list on the grand veranda. Potted trees hung with opals - the most magnificent any of us has ever seen - rotate on unseen mechanisms behind him. Occasionally a child throws a bushy little mitten or decorative writing instrument over the edge, and it falls into the mostly ineffectual moat below.

Fiddlers and trumpeters recline on salvaged comforters on the lawn, awaiting their moment to raise a joyous noise. Wistful in poultry waste, a music expert balances on a sycamore log, forming a capital G with her beastly body.

Interior Wand

The young women next door communicate with each other by way of rocks, painted with intricate patterns and left in designated locations in the yard. I have discovered that the content of the messages is determined by a number of factors, including the colors and shaped used in the pattern, location in the yard, orientation of the rock, size of the rock (ranging from the size of a plum to the size of a grapefruit), and taxonomic identity of the rock. 

My efforts to decode the messages these clever young women leave each other have been fruitless. I applaud their ingenuity but gravely fear the intent of their clandestine communiques: too often, I have observed, such extreme measures are only used by the most nefarious individuals!

The Best Socket

We have been commanded to make a specific soup recipe, a flat soup with caustic fibers suspended in a brash peppered broth, topped with a mixed-starch crust.

When I say "commanded," I do not mean that some fickle Earthly authority has issued a painfully-worded dictum from the musty den of a tiresome bureaucrat; no, this command comes from that great ineffable presence we all are subject to, and whose presence you yourself may have grown increasingly aware of in the months since inauguration.

The soup is offensive to all but the most finely-honed palates, and I am personally honored to be among its most vociferous proponents. Sir, will you crack the crust with your preferred oblong utensil and verbally communicate your reaction?

We Hung the Dinosaur

Cantankerous, the author must attend church. His lapis lazuli finery and porridge-colored briefs are admired by 33% of the parishioners. The other 67% feel threatened by him, so they pack heat in the form of really good and powerful handguns. 

Fruit and free chewing gum fills the collar of the grunting book writing guy in the back pew (stained as it is with greasy exhalations of five decades' worth of Christian rectums). But when the bad kids come around they get their fruit and gum. Because two thirds of the congregants value their childrens' pleasure, they refrain from shooting the novelist in the face, thighs, breast, and wormy dick.

Trouble with the Thick Stencil

My pet, on the end of the waxed rope, a heavy head like fly agaric, deposits scraps of itself along the scarred walk. Occasionally a business owner or driver attempts and fails to guess the pet's name.

Along the canal, abandoned toys prove to be an alluring prospect for the pet, and more than several times I'm forced to wrestle a worthless thing from its mouth. 

I throw it hard into the water and they are carried slowly down stream. They pass the cannery and metallurgical academy. They pass the fictional mausoleum. Eventually, inevitably, they're pulled into the eddy and pile up under the scenic overlook where estranged families attempt and fail, usually, to reconcile.

O! Off Their Moult!

Family means writing and rewriting the rules for cooperative sports and playing word games until the distant scent of the beach seduces the elders. I thank God for hobbies: climbing a lot, tumbling by myself, coming repeatedly for the perfect man. Why doesn’t he love me?

Anthony is ready to bring girls to Chicago, letting me live in their world. Letting me notify God of my new arrangement. Letting me play alone in the garage. Anthony is on God’s phone.

I can't see the cat in my mind these days. There was a blue sheen to its fur that seemed possible, if one had the privilege of ecstatic product.

Going to Flaccid Golf World

Verification of slop! Yucky goo in the pocket and weeping ooze in the cone under the porch. Ouch!

Just a Blissful Renal Strategy

I was allowed to lounge beneath the static sizzle for most of my forties: patient like a meal uneaten, dull to anxieties, promised to the gentle pull of entropy. I was seen or unseen by relations and colleagues and strangers, an occasional reassuring reminder of existence. 

The throbbing didn't begin until the lichens had gained purchase, transforming flesh into vapor and light into flesh, transforming ambition into a gauzy sense of retreat upon its fresh exposure to the electrochemical background noise of the home neighborhood. Standing erect, the concrete was hot white foam and the fiction crackled like ribbons of ceramic.

Pre-sensitized Succulent

Upon graduation, I grabbed a pumpkin-shaped hand and it took me somewhere new, the dominion of odorless doctrines. I found most of the relevant equipment there defective, most of the tissue friable and pale, most of the beverages inoffensive and listless. I let go of the hand after several days of purposeless chaperoning and fell immediately into a shallow trench, where I was allowed to have sex finally. Great sex! Certified, I plagued the starchy citizenry with strident requests for clean garments, none of which have, as yet, been granted.

Emil "Slab" Chastain

The sugar bear is my spiritual mother. The luster of her fur dazzles passersby while she naps in the town square. I buy buttered bread and eat it while I recline on her heaving sparkly body. She smells like ginger. I will buy her a cool digital watch.