"Suck the word-marrow from a splintered tube of bone! That verb don't belong there in amongst them ilonyms, bub!" they squawked, haughtily.
I shrugged. "Silky topaz halterneck pastiche. Come in the sink if you have to, my pretties!"
Funny how some birds can flood yr mind with hot narcotic infusions, eh? A pixellated swarm of frozen mutes swam past. We swallowed en masse.
I headed east, to the deadside of my life. Overhead, smeared venereal graffiti, an epigram of sores. A migraine of mouth-chancres fell past me like early evening snow. She was lining up heads on the toilet bowl when I got there, each tiny mouth puckered like a pistol. It was a hysterectomy! She shot him doggie-fashion and watched, bored, as he drowned in slow motion, his candy-stripe eyes rotating like drunken barber-poles.
Editor-birds ate roses in a torrent of autumnal verse.
A purple cum-stain on Jackson Pollack. The sky cried words.
It was still only 3:27pm.
cc kek-w, 2006