Rain scattered o’er his face & chin & eyeballs. The sky was bluer than blue chairs. He was hungry. He was skeleton thin. His joints were somehow both sore from sleeping on the drywall & numb from the ice box in his heart. His fingers were crawling with hangnails.

‘Twas while trudging through the sky’s slices o’ swamp in his broke jeans full o’ pulled springs that he met the bearded man. The bearded man wore a rich robe o’ blood red & held a scarlet scepter whose star-&-sickle head twinkled in the moonlight. So did the bearded man’s eyes.

The bearded man held his hands out & said in a soft, slightly whispery voice, “I know what you need…”

“No…”

“Shhh. It’ll all be OK. Come with me. Our kind shall rule destiny.”

Our hero’s knees stumbled & fell. Our hero was now in the bearded man’s stomach.

You clocked you could get waves from me,

but the pan came back,

the pan came back with 2 pounds a back

& there’s no going crack.

& then John Jacob Whistlemeyer, having gotten done with his cracked reveries in his sour soup tin while ponderplating Cheerios, Good Day, Sir, wiped his nose & began building a magnificent dinghie—that’s the way he spelled it; it’s Germish without the Germs.

¡What a magnificent dinghie it’s developing to become!

!I can just smell the salt hair brushing through my wind @ the seaset sun white shimmies!

¡Not anymo’!

We need to put germs in that.

1 Sneeze

& I was the who who killed you grand ma ma,

I was the what what jobbed your shove & took it.

I sneaked your Finlandia into Octoberfest Sam Adams

so you couldn’t code the crack as punchly as youth do in your you’d,

& left the Octoberfest ‘hind.

¿Why?

¡But luck!

You superbugs adjust to disinfected medicine,

& always find a new nasty cafeteria to sponge.

There is no such thing as no such free lunch.

‘Twas nice o’ these sneezes to bring me back to my dreams o’ drowning death,

but it’s time to wake & drown in peptodismal pink health,

with no help for to unlistened yelps.

Hopefully

the weather

will treat me better.

Hopefully

we’ll weather

sweet bleak September.

But as the tempests tempt my temples

with their timbering-shivers warm scattered rain “Jib Jib,”

I grasp your collar & hollar,

“¡I won’t land! ¡This is the land’s end!”

E’en if I can see the ice cream looming in the horizon.

& if I ne’er got round to growing that weedseas,

¿was the wasabi I weaned worth it, OK?

It tastes,

& the killer sound waves blow through my skeleton

in ways my skeleton has ne’er felt in months.

¡But lunch!

I’ve had too much

warm medicine,

which is why I’ve been reticent to be hesitant.

Though I don’t feel butter when I feel butter,

I hope I feel butter before I bring home the bread,

as bread’s hardest to catch when I’m not wrecked.

That’s my theory o’ labor—the value theory,

which makes a grape subjective theory, too;

just mix it with booze & the honeyed flu,

as the good doctor, Keens, proscribes with laughter.

That’s why he’s the theory general, all after.

But no one gave me a knife.

It’s peanut-butter-jammed in the toaster.

& if my Lucky®’s expired,

I’m untoasted.

Today I opened this ancient scroll in indecipherable lettering whose contents spoke o’ a world so twisted & so bleak that no mere words could describe it, even though these words did. So hideous were these words that they struck my brain like a firebolt, causing my limbs to shake uncontrollably, as if my nerves had been transformed into ants, & causing my mouth to froth. This became too much for my spindly legs, causing me to collapse onto the ground, knocking my cranium so hard gainst the wooden floor that I was knocked unconscious.

When I woke, I saw a creature too despicable to describe, with skin consisting o’ steel & leather patched together, a million poison-colored orifices dripping oil-colored drool that steamed as it burned into the wooden floor, & a shape that defied geometry. FML.

Photo courtesy o’ eqphotolog @ Freeimages.com. Neither are affiliated with this blog or any o’ my insane rants.