414 Words to Celebrate Friday

Time collapses the fourth wall bearing tuna peanut Christ on a spoon wallop my favorite sorceress in cheese dildo blanket take a piece of pie and place it on the counter for grandma with the teeth that freeze the serotonin muscles in your thighs like booze-saturated tingling sensations of nighttime glow worms secreting the universe in dollops of marshmallow chastity waiting for a boat that will never come a sliced tomato sutured to Friday night painful in its austerity pigeonholed theybies buttoned and packed in crystal lattice afraid of dark care bear haircuts stingy old misers batting tooth picks away from their golden noodles singing harmony in suns canceling the radio for all the seagull children on Phobos while Deimos eats tuna melts naked under his brother’s inside-out cock firing squads to the heathen brain standard the crux of my argument fallen from windows electing Sid Myers’ tampon woman hole born flesh and big brick wall crawling rather than a fallen cycle of tubes ululating bourbon in old time factory farming table hoppers bell bottom wrangling tomb storage upstairs from the baby genius whose brain is a tumor on a corn cob cobbled with an entity to which no spoon can be driven to insert weaponized Africa like the table slalom race 1994 solidified in total memory be Chris Kringle and his camp razor stymied for fly eyes gouging funds walrus-like in tickling themselves shame and boar tusks quake diligent Eden pans handling the cockroach devil forest why the killing floor melts to shame and beaks knot rot the galvanization of chinchilla heartache separate yourself from titty willow pushpin dig bugging needle throttling the dark corners like centers of almond brown, nails driven spikes heaved whoring big stinger rotate spiral evisceration like shawarma in a boll weevil casket for Palestine’s pogo stick tried to be a tulip and now it is a bacon soda gift store East Aurora fiasco buying happiness with a 22 dollar bill Buffalo rising into the skies of the dome surface convex to this world like sister’s memories molded by hands too large to conceive making the mill house a mole mounting a Diglett like it always should have in tickle trees when forests renege on promises they don’t own, never owned, never dreamed of sliding the butter knife through the bottom of the door to poke the porcupine when it’s having a bad day and you can think of nothing better to do than torture the poor little bugger.