bernie the cheese collapsed at the side of the road his measured response depleted he watches as she folds up her neat and meticulously spelled words plied on silver tongue into her rucksack and through such ******* ******* of kings english she entices him ever onward where faint lines can be sought and yet to be found that echo the face of true madness its laughing sweating continence painted with watercolours and can only be seen in the reflection of a mirror reflecting another mirrors image
her face slowly releases its dire grip and her eye looses it screaming aspect as she finds herself alone on the ***** alleys cobblestones the battered dumpsters spilling treasures for the divers to find she begins to hum a beatles tune from '63 and fingers the lace shawl hiding her deformed mind trying once more to capture that vast lost feeling from girlhood that dances a dubious little jig on her headstone of the heart singing 'lookie here....look at whats buried here' she remembers his face but not his name he drove a silver buick with a skull painted on the hood his blond features engraved in the notions his words mixed with foul smelling chicken soup he was a soup of the day in her salad years
bernie the cheese chews on the charbroiled taste of his blowup doll lover's lips and tries to say the three magic words 'made in china'?? his own words spent he casts about in terror for a phrase or two to quote from the masters of deception who gather round in long grey coats sinister eyes on the fruits of his labour their wooden faces warped by rain their mouths only a dim perceived line of mumbles written in childlike scrawl on the backs of closet doors we hide here because we cannot see therefore we cannot be seen you cant touch me because i cannot feel they gift him at price unnamed some loose parable naught more that glib reprise of his own perilous straights his is the beast that labours in their stead he is their human face she is but the road they walk today