The Energy of a Collie

In a humorous fashion, human housemates Tony and Misty become amateur detectives who are unfriendly and downright mean. They travel extensively and that turns out to be a hot mess. 

Neither of them realize that the fine cameraman who is an excellent piece of eye candy has printed several hardcover scrapbooks for family and friends.

Slippery Orange in Taylor Swift's Purse

Crystal, the skilled photographer, boldly declares social and religious opinions. Tied to the roof of the car, she has enjoyed pastel portraits and oil paintings. She won a turkey drawing contest. Originally, her daughter Hayley submitted to the Siamese cat named Sammy, who is usually gloomy and sad. Sammy’s little sister Lacy wakes up uncontrollable. She laughs so hard that she is harnessed to a sled.

Shadow of a Weiner

The killer’s dinner had to be beautiful. A Vietnam veteran, he has a ball of baffling pain and beautiful horses. He hadn’t heard from his three pure orange grandchildren, his eerie cat, or his voluptuous building super in several days.

Although this is his first premonition of military victims, he would have his dinner one day soon. He is planning a night of nude prowling. Several local physicians would soon find themselves involved in the craft of woodworking.

Ginger and Poop

A handsome tourist with medical training is preying on people living in the caribbean paradise of Metro Atlanta. Brent tantalizes the captives by lying. Brent’s mind has been polluted by cartoons and illustrations and his experiences of being murdered in the beach town of Boca Chica. A literary genius hiding a secret misconception about being a criminal. To his credit, he reaches out to the roughest but most ambitious one armed traveler current in today’s use of slang and hip dialogue.

Exit Stabs

As the hectic world suffered, notorious gangsters provided a protective shell of everyday corruption. As they got older they ended up in a Spanish Primary school and died. Then they created many traumatized shadows. There was nobody left in the village called Kintbury. Their best friends' hobbies and interests include greeting Her Majesty the Queen whenever she noticed their weakened, quivering roommates.

Skank's Evacuation

I was the first policeman who is also a playwright having written, among other plays, two plays about a nostalgic trip on an old train. Over a paella and a glass of Rioja, I prevent the cats from sleeping. 

Dealing with the challenges of eating is not so easy. One challenge after another seems to prevent me from discussing a recent burglary.  The cats will be guilty of nefarious murders.

Whizzers and Brass Buckets

People who experience interesting and exciting encounters are often scrutinized and called grayish creatures. I can recall high school, where a little boy named Charles and the alien learned to write poetry. Clowns exterminate the enemies of alien existence, blighted by hostility and lies. Scientists are quite in the dark about their origin.

A Southerner's Oral Secretions

Glittering Fistula

There's a grandeur in our twisted romance, a doomed glamour. You slap my face and spit in my food. I invent florid insults, precisely engineered to dig into your deepest anxieties. In our ruin, we dance around each other, blades in our quivering fists, fingers clenched so tightly that their very tissues have merged and hardened. Occasionally, we blindly manage to make contact, slicing.

Years hence, when we have fallen to the ground and lost our eyes and tongues and the vital essence in each of us has leaked out and commingled in the parched soil, our final resting place will be marked by a wretched tree. 

Our flesh freed from the disintegrated muscle and bone dust inside, we will be found by a curious wanderer who will mistake our flesh for an ancient scroll, our lacerations as a story written the glyphs of a lost language.

Mike Lindell's Burlap Prophylactic

The people have been interested in fantasy and intricate xenophobia. Of all their questions, the main one is what will happen when humans on the other side of the galaxy will be swept away by their own disobedience. When I was growing up in St. Croix, U. S. Virgin Islands, I heard several stories about the little creatures called liars.

Dip Spikes

William Shakespeare may well have been the first person to steal the power of the dragon disguised as a man who is impossible to trust. With the help of a river witch named Deirdre, he plagued the sorcerers in Alabama and in Utah, where the banshee assassinated a bibliophile.

An Exultation of Property

A dangerous animal who is in the garden pond turns himself purple. Though he causes her no end of problems and embarrassment, the mistress is not quite willing to wear a muzzle.

A talented footballer steals special chocolates and baby teeth. He looks adorable but he has his own special way of injuring himself with dripping paint. He eats Bank Robbers!

The Flaky Macho Guy Cruises

Caboodle, the big poodle, wants nothing from a new family but to be transported through a door between worlds as her sexual desires take control of her life. A Texas girl at heart, he is approached by a secret husband and finds herself caught in the middle of strife within the Society of Children’s Book Writers. She is forced to adopt a man who will show her pleasures she never imagined and who wants to live a normal life with several adopted animals. Tonight she will experience surprising rewards.

Sauce of Aura

My town is a friendly place. I get food and a lot of positive physical contact. A lady at the auto body shop says my hair is like oily feathers. A tree surgeon says I have healthy phloem and won't explain exactly what he means by that.

A puckered old gentleman calls me "sweet ham" and says that when he's agitated, he soothes himself by imagining my pillowy skin pierced by something sharp and oozing sweet tar. My little body in its current swollen and moistened form delights people.

Microsuede Reptile and Immersion into Senility

I danced with father and mother until I drowned. My breathing time behind me, I became stronger, with good claws to mutilate the Earth and fashion a fine underground lair.

I shelter my morality and language here to make school lose its musk. What you may see is just what it is, am excellent buried pickup truck cell.

When doctor fell asleep on me I was only a nude guy without a single pixel of clothing to my name. I lashed myself to him and eventually our similar penises fused umbilically.

Moving and speaking spiky ivy grows thick behind the lab. We have an entirely valid relationship as a single consolidated person.

At yellow creek, the nudes we sell to cruel guys in prehistoric blazers give us a sense of bravado. Their purchases earn them points which they can redeem for music or cash.

Cephalic Embrace

In the mask they offered us a chance to resign. I've never eaten and I was inclined to accept the offer. So I did.

Next, I bought a large bag of drugs from my former step-father (as an aside, I wish there was a less awkward way to refer to a step-father your proud and willful mother divorced). It was time to make plans for oblivion.

The orcs on their leashes at the leg meat cafe sounded like mesh rash, their friendship dissected and laid out like items on deep discount. Jean said she would have to edit our green simulations of ecstasy. I concurred.

Still, I wait

I Hear the Faucet Song

My family lived for corrugated lipids and weak gelatin. We awakened to the inhospitable presence of medicine, one by one until we each possessed our own distinct odor.

Eventually the worship ritual felt rather self-reflexive, a form of respect paid to the memory of a permanent flattery rather than to the horror of inertia.

None of these Hams are Fine

Crispy golf lady feeds lip noodles through a surprisingly bouyant plastic appliance that turns them into moist wads. Lip meat makes great jewelry for a stranger's husband or, if it's mushed together into a large enough lump and bronzed, a unique paperweight.

When she finishes the wads she tosses the appliance into a water hazard and indeed it floats.

Hamper on the Deck

Spirited, frisky, flirty, and polished to a blinding sheen, this is my mother. My mother! She pounds on her kettle with a heavy oblong utensil, her hands stained black with soot from the fire she pulled it from.

I am punctured by the ancient island spirit as the miniscule orbs in my blood swell and vibrate and the sound attracts someone: my father. My father!

He extracts a gleaming silver needle from his fake hollow ass cheek and uses it to write music notation on my chest. A super football jock but also a nerd, he possesses the harsh guttural voice of a sulphur stork.

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.

Real Plastic Biscuit

This thing I found has tendrils, hirsute vining threads that leave welts. I cover them with gloves, but then I'm wearing gloves, and people ask me about the gloves. Is it an affectation? No, I  hiding the welts I got from handling the thing my living mannequin friend sent me via UPS.

Crumbs of a Jewel

A green face witch questions my choice to wear two aprons: one in front, one in back. But I have been told that a mess can sneak up from behind. I listened to her counsel and removed the front apron.

This left me with an extra apron. Which I sold to a duckfoot gnome under the pier at Golf Beach. With the payment (seven striped crab carapaces), I purchased my own swift little wooden scooter.

Slathered in the Heathen Goo

As a current hunter and science fiction fan, Joshua is always ready to become extinct. The governor of Nevada will survive if he has life changing allegiance. Going ahead with his plan to quit smoking or die, the man behind daytime television series dated both of my parents. That is unbelievable!

I was inadvertently involved with a serial killer when I became a bounty hunter. The casino workers didn’t cooperate with a policeman. The “cowboy” was a rookie police officer, the son of a powerful father. The catholic priests that murdered the youngest mayor in California had lots of enemies. If I didn’t cooperate with a crooked cop, I would have grown up an only child!

Characters in a Teal Box

Chime and we fall theatrically. Rubber snakes on concrete, startling the occasional passerby for a moment, but we're quickly forgotten as they walk, the next place and the place after that. They might hear the chime themselves, but they don't know.

We fall as we do and let the things on the ground traverse us. A hand might fall on a calf or a finger might attract a sourceless trickle of blood. A tuft of killed plant (maybe a sweetgum seed) might sneak under a sweatshirt or blouse. A gaze might line up with another gaze and the exchange will never rise to the verbal like a plunged thing desperate for the surface of the water. The chime, the specific type of fall, and then silence for the allotted time. Sometimes things fall on us. Insubstantial, usually.

The things on the ground learn us and ignore us again. The people come to scoop us up, load us into the truck. And eventually we'll find our way back here, or another place, form another clot, hear the chime, fall in the customary way.

Four Tin Sticks

Throttled by hubris, disastrous husbands careen towards middle age with gross burgers in their glove compartments, with lubricated condoms. Under their flatulence-soaked bucket seats: cigar boxes full of dog tags they never wore. Their guitar string thongs and suede ponchos and pepper pelts inspire revulsion among anyone with minimal cognitive ability. 

Vomit. Bile. Tree bark elbows, broken toothpicks in our heels. Ducks' heads in a circle on the floor under the throbbing bed. Paper cut mouths in N95 shells, sucking at themselves. 

Stained thermoses of something bituminous, rolling on the corrugated rubber. Patches and emblems and insignia shaped like shields because that's exactly what they are. 

Crooked shopping carts, gritty citrus soap, screw broom on pegboard, smelt. Nets. Tents. Denim. Scattered beads, not beads: popped baseball cap pegs, everywhere.

Accepted Cookies

You have learned to honor the chieftain with sprigs of dill behind the ears, bearing eggs of swallowtails. Jellied jewels of possibility. Behind the scaffolding of your waking ambitions, a stuttering mist in the vague form of a child projects an unheard song. It's picked up by keener instruments than yours, and you'll mistake the hunters it beckons for half-mothers.

Hi We're Flotsam

Big Buck kicks a brown ball to Kyle Gray. Rye bread morning breaks into platinum blonde afternoon. Kyle Gray, generous sniper, architect of misfortune.

Aunt Rosalee lifts the oblong trunk, leaves grease fingerprints on the lacquer. Leaves footprints in the dust. She's been pranked by cotton faced Big Buck. There are no vintage costumes in the trunk, but she will find a dead crab for the Christmas wreath.

Kyle Gray pumps a bubble of groovy scrap talk in the side yard when he sees the great crab in Aunt R's brown basket. Pilfering tiptoe titty skips, she laughs like a plain scrambler on her way to the wreath barn.

Raggedy Harmonica Sack

In the rock and roll graveyard, she learns the astronomy of insects. The great motorcycle sculpture, looming above the troubled population of this town, her birthplace, ignites its headlamp for the first time in a generation. Bandanas and fairy shawls drift to the ground, crystals of frost reaching up to catch them and pull them into the organic substrate.