"meaty" poems
I'm a photographer, and I can't picture you and I together.
If I were a stop light, I'd turn green everytime you passed by, just so I don't have to see you any longer.
I thought happiness started with an HAPPI. Why does mine start with NOT U?
Are you a camera? Because every time I look at you, I run and hide.
Do you have a map? I need to figure out a way to get the hell away from you.
Do you live in a corn field, cause I'm just gonna harvest you and sell you to someone else.
Are you a parking ticket? 'Cause you've got Violation written all over you.
You look cold. Good. Freeze to death.
Can I have directions? [To where?] To get the hell away from you.
I'm not drunk, I'm just intoxicated enough to tolerate talking to you.
I was so disgusted by your face that I ran into that wall over there. But thank god I don't have insurance, so don't bother telling me your name and number.
Is there an airport nearby, cause I'm gotta get on the next flight to Antarctica and get the hell away from you.
You look so familiar… didn't we take a class together? I could've sworn we had physical education, where I was educated how to physically hurt you.
If you are a steak, I'd say you are too meaty.
Can I have a picture of you? So I can show Santa what I don't want for Christmas.
There must be something wrong with my eyes, they've started bleeding at the sight of you.
Dec 6, 2014
Dec 6, 2014 at 3:54 PM UTC
I reserved a table for the two of us
at the only restaurant in the world
that not only offers atmosphere and setting
but tone and syntax as well.
First some articles for appetizers. They're
easiest on my pocket you know.
An an, a the, and an a.
Let's not even start on the punctuation,
I'm treating you to a rather large meal.
As large as the entire English language,
now back to the articles.
Sure these taste like lint but they still
taste. Petit fours but there you are.
Try to be disinterested or you'll
put me off my food.
Nouns now. My, what a variety.
Bit meaty, eh? These have staying power.
They taste like a bit of everywhere,
and everyone, and everything.
What's that? Surely they're not that bland.
Maybe you need some seasoning.
"Adjective" comes from the
French for "to the word."
So exotic aren't they? These
really are fantastic.
Exquisite, unique, zesty to say the least.
You must admit, they
make the meal worth it.
I hope you're not allergic,
I could have sworn I just
had something "nutty."
Oh, it had nuts "in it"?
There must be some prepositions
mixed in here.
(I'm glad we're getting through
these now, I've never been a big fan of them.
When I was a kid, I would always push my prepositions to the end
of my sentences. You just can't do
that in a joint like this, it seems.)
Ah finally. The verbs are served.
Well-prepared it would seem.
Yes, anything you can do to a verb
they've done to these.
Infinitives (too good to realistically be believed!),
gerunds, and participles (No, not particles. But we
did have some of those at the Japanese restaurant.)
Fairly lean too, as I can't see
any auxiliary fat.
For some reason
those adverbs (just to your left, under that
thesaurus) really go well with this.
Plus those adjectives from earlier, rather pleasantly.
Now a brief selection
of conjunctions, but don't ruin
yourself. They're not a meal of themselves,
just a link to...
Oh! Look at those interjections.
So delicate, so (Wow!) incisive.
I told you to keep your appetite.
Well, just try a little of this. Goodness, me!
And then everyone proceeds to
die
from a split infinitive.
Mar 21, 2010
Mar 21, 2010 at 7:44 PM UTC
I never did know when to shut my mouth,
So I guess it’s no shock to feel it smarting against your back handed swing,
But to be honest, I bet it hurt you more, does it sting?
Can you feel it in your bones ?
Copper taste against my tongue,
I’m choking on my own blood,
Does my manic laugh horrify you?
This Cheshire smile plastered across my face,
Do my cheekbones slice your knuckles?
That’s going to leave a bruise,
Not that you care,
Twisted my head back by my hair,
My body is peppered in greens, purples, blues,
But with the way you turn your head down you’d think I was the one abusing you,
When you wrap your meaty fingers around my windpipe does it give you pleasure?
What goes through your mind while your holding my life in your hands,
How many of my ribs have you cracked upon your feet,
Only to lick my thighs later like a treat,
One of these days it’ll be my fingers around your neck,
And I won’t stop squeezing till your dead,
Until then use my body to your hearts content,
This dangerous dance,
Like egg shells beneath my soles,
I’m waiting for you to slip on the blood you painstakingly draw from me blow by blow,
And in your own sick way you actually love me,
Convinced the only way to save me is to hurt me,
But I’m not that sick or twisted to believe the words you croke out,
One day very soon it’ll be you who shouts,
Ya I never did know when to shut my mouth,
So I guess it’s no shock to feel it smarting against your back handed swing.
Dec 14, 2018
Dec 14, 2018 at 9:57 AM UTC
Steak
Yummy, Juicy
Tender, Meaty, Scrumptious
You can get any kind you would like
Protein
May 22, 2012
May 22, 2012 at 8:33 AM UTC
I find myself at the laundromat
Working out my thighs and lats
I put 2 quarters in the slot
It makes a sound like a robot
I open the door and I am posed
With a question asking, where are my clothes?
I don't wanna look stupid so I improvise
So I start chatting it up with a couple of guys
I say
Laundry for hire, laundry for hire
I'm looking for just the right buyer
Come on in, into my dryer
Laundry for hire, laundry for hire
One fine chap quickly agrees
Though I see him shaking at the knees
I ask him kindly to take out his keys
Don't worry kiddo this will be easy
He squeezes in, packed so tightly
I close the door feeling high and mighty
The machine rolls round and round
The door opens, and he falls to the ground
I feast on his entrails, meaty and sweet
Taking in the smell of his feet
I end my meal and am satisfied
Though I do wish he was deep fried
I feel a hunger still raging on
I still wish for it to be gone
So I say,
Laundry for hire, Laundry for hire
I'm looking for just the right buyer
Come on in into my dryer
Laundry for hire laundry for hire
Oct 31, 2014
Oct 31, 2014 at 4:39 PM UTC
Jojo's
Firm
Meaty
And
Massive
Jumbo
Jiggles
Appear
Sometimes
On
Nasty
Dances.
January
February
March
April
May
June
July
August
September
October
November
December
*Amphigouri- A verse composition, while apparently coherent, contains no sense or meaning
Jojo-
Young girl, barely out of puberty, beautiful and seductive beyond her age, dresses provocatively with high ****** drive, not shy to group *** usually attract older men.
"Look at those middle aged men drooling over that little jojo!"*
Apr 3, 2013
Apr 3, 2013 at 11:38 AM UTC
Sizzling, crackling, popping, cooking
Crunchy, greasy, meaty goodness.
Bacon is perfection
It can be a snack, a meal,
And goes on sandwiches
Because who has ever heard of an LT sandwich?
Nobody, because a BLT needs bacon
As much as me, you, and everyone else on this world
Needs bacon
Perfect, delicious, sizzling
Bacon
Apr 2, 2015
Apr 2, 2015 at 1:18 PM UTC
Manhattan by line,
by subway track purr,
by foot in a midwinter
fresh, gale force air.
The dying battery in
Times Square's wristwatch,
halts hands in mid air,
each hailing the second taxi
that comes to them
every next minute;
definitely in the next ten.
Buried benches in thigh high
snow look lost, with
only their branching tops
on display for the tourist's show,
tramping through
this January snow.
Double-back, back
past the Chipotle store,
where diners stand and eat,
stand and greet,
stand with napkins to appear neat,
stand near the radiator to warm their feet,
stand-in-the-corner-and-text-your-wife-saying-you'll-be-home-late-because-this-meaty-wrap-is-pleasurable-to-eat.
He was with another woman, kissing her cheek.
Manhattan is a horizon of horizontal lines,
drawn by pencil lead, led up a page
to create this fascinating portrait
that a point-and-click-camera
cannot comprehend,
let alone negotiate.
We can go unnoticed there, like
most others in this gale force air,
but billboard boys-
the ones that braid ****** building hair,
window panes
and balcony balustrade-
are the famous ones
of Broadway, with nothing more
than their commercial stare.
Jan 22, 2013
Jan 22, 2013 at 10:33 AM UTC
This is a Mindalithian
Mindalithians live in marvelous mansions
with mischievous children in Minnesota
Midalithians eat mounds of mac-n-cheese,
meaty meatballs, and magicians
Mindalithians like metallic mushroom
and mega marshmallows
Mindalithians make magnificent magic, meditates mellowly
and marches with mops
this Mindalithian taught me magical meditations
and made me march as a mop
May 18, 2012
May 18, 2012 at 1:54 PM UTC
I still remember her pinay almond eyes and peanut butter smile
even though she was a cracked nut.
I still remember chewing on her whiskey-sponged lips
her Koala cheeks and the Melbourne burn of her voice.
I still remember her throwing fits and things at me
we’ll chalk that up as the hazards of dating a Dominican woman.
I still remember her Grand Canyonized Salma Hayek thighs
as fat and meaty as her spicy Mexican tortas.
I still remember the coca leaf nature of her walk
and the precise coffee of her eyes that kept me up all night.
I still remember her catracha scent when escaping her man
just to lay the blue frosting of her clandestine mouth on mine.
I still remember her swiftly poetic like a Chico Barque song
the Brazilian beauty who netted in my heart a Pelé-size goal.
I still remember them.
May 8, 2013
May 8, 2013 at 1:15 PM UTC
Can't you feel it in my heart that I'm burning,
Got bit by a zombie and man, I'm ******* turning.
Would I end up as ugly as before-
They say beauty is inside
So, If I peel my skin-
I'll be prettier than before.
Man, I don't know,
They seem pretty gross to me.
I mean,
I'm no racist,
But I know you'll get me-
When you see one running around,
They are everywhere, man-
On the roofs and on the gound.
I saw a man once being caught,
Only his middle finger was ever found.
I saw some drown tough,
It was very funny.
I guess, they haven't learned to swim yet-
But there are just too many,
Of them-
Running naked on the streets,
Going after every piece of living thing,
Alive or dead,
Man, it's something you can never forget,
It's crazy out there, man-
And if you haven't seen that ****
You won't understand.
Even the dogs are infected for some weird reason,
Hollywood got that one right,
Yes, indeed.
There are zombie dogs for real.
Zombie dogs
Oh my god-
So ******* cool, man,
They chase around the slow ones on the street,
It's fun to watch,
Only one or two usually gets caught.
But it's also very trying,
I've lost so much weight, man.
I now look like that bale guy,
Who was batman,
Remember,
In that joker film,
It's him,
I saw his movie where he is so so thin.
Forget that,
I mean it's different than I thought,
It's like being in a war,
A real war.
Now I feel how those people felt, who were living in a war,
And I never gave **** about 'em all,
We speak tall, man-
But we left them to crawl.
Whatever-
So, I'm feeling strange,
Not Like the strange strange,
You say when you say-
You're feeling strange,
It's a little different,
Strange.
But I'm about to die anyway,
So what the heck-
I'm gonna run the horse one last time,
Hey, it's not a crime.
I also don't like blood,
Man, that **** scares me.
And the government is gone,
So nobody is there to care for me.
It's horrible-
And not even Hollywood bad.
It's way more nasty, man
They don't tell you that stuff in the movies, man.
Horrible sight of filth and naked, ragged bodies,
Covered in dirt and blood-
Chewing on a finger of somebody.
They pop those like a candy man,
I mean, a long juicy meaty stick of meat,
Oh, ****
I think I'm becoming one of them, I have to leave,
If you find me-
Shoot me in the head,
And if I bite you,
Don't be mad.
They also **** man.
It's kinda' sad.
Apr 16, 2015
Apr 16, 2015 at 4:02 PM UTC
I would like to feel again
Burst abruptly from this cocoon of numbness I find myself in
Ice Queen.
Eskimo ***** is mighty cold or so I've been told
Lucky me no Inuit runs through these punch drunk crazy veins
The taste of blood, copper and meaty, is sharp on bitten lips
The facade of laughter, worry
The years that stand between us
Are held up for scrutiny
You are always lacking
I am always wanting
It is our way
Now I find us at a crossroads
Another path blossoms thick and heavy with unkempt erotica
Dripping silky sweet between the sheets
It is one I will walk alone, living sin
Our path is ripe and full
Surprises swinging around every corner
My every desire obtained
Going to sleep lonely but repeat
Such is the choice of a woman
Or is it?
Aug 2, 2012
Aug 2, 2012 at 6:38 PM UTC
11-11-11- past 11a.m.
I missed it.
I wanted for me what happened to my friend
in Australia
She was walking down the street and at
11-11-11- 11a.m.
almost everyone around her
took a bow to such powerful numbers
11-11-11-11a.m.
(Perhaps we shall be saved she said)
Today, my 11-11-11, I was shopping for my lovers feast;
Hummus and crispy organic veggies
Fresh beets and pure ****** olive oil
Local goat cheese to die for
My phone alarm rang letting me know it was 11:10
(I did not hear it) as I was talking to Max my grocer
About:
Just picked Arugula and sweet Irish butter
(To mound a top San Francisco sour dough)
He hinted to me not to miss out
On:
Butternut squash and meaty pomegranates
"A lucky omen" he said, "on a day like today."
“What do you mean A day like today?” I said
“Well it’s 11-11-11” he smiled
“Oh my goodness” I faintly cried (almost too loud),
“I missed it!” (I saw the time on the wall where I was shopping)
“Missed what?” he said
"Missed out on experiencing 11-11-11-11.a.m."
“Oh my dear you missed nothing”, he said as he reached toward me with
A huge ripe pomegranate. I felt flush from wanting something
that now seemed so gone.
“No”, Max pointed out, “you have more than feeling a set of numbers
In the movement of the day”,
“You were here planning a feast for a loved one
(yes I told him it was a lovers dinner)
What could be more in acknowledging the power of life
Than love?”
I said nothing as I beamed and took that pomegranate and
Ohhhh
I felt so good.
Linaji 2011
(an almost true story)
Nov 11, 2011
Nov 11, 2011 at 6:05 PM UTC
This life, although startling in its brilliance,
remains confined to the electrical shadows
cast on the walls of our brains.
Do you ever feel…
no, no, no
not feel.
Well maybe feel...
or sense…
that everlasting something
sometimes off in the distance I can see…
I’d love to take my hands
and, like the meaty instruments they are, dance
sweet symphonies up and down
your body.
Your mysterious mountains I wish to see closer
to land my ***** machine
among majestic silver seas and
strange beautiful grass of green.
I would use my subtle touch to say
what I couldn’t any other way and
drag you down to the depths.
But things are not so simple
in life
as in our thoughts,
nor so rough
as our poor idiotic language.
*Every hand, give me your hand.
I’ll talk to you, you wont understand.*
These electrical shadows cry at the ultimate,
but our mere conception shames it.
Like the dream tigers we desperately try to craft
they continue to disintegrate
like the castles made of sands,
rocks piled on rocks
reaching for the stars.
The firmer the hold,
the quicker it slips away.
“Just try squeezing the truth from water,”
the angels sing to me in my sleep.
And it’s the love of dreams
which is so greedy for recognition
swiftly performed in the sight of all.
And it’s the waves I feel…
well maybe not feel.
And I wanna say **** you”
because I still love you.
I sense…
well maybe not sense…
And I feel
my soul being slit up as if by a razor.
frenzied but beautiful and
an awful ambiguity grinning over it all,
cackling out the Tao’s opening words,
lukewarm to the point of being
enigmatic,
“The truth that can be told, that is no eternal truth.”
I guess after the laughter, then comes the tears.
**** you, Lao Tzu
and your ****** ancient wisdom.
Why you staring at my finger when I’m pointing at the moon?
I got nothing at all.
The center, unapproachable
forever.
You’re willing to die you coward
but not to live.
Love life more than the meaning of it.
Sep 19, 2011
Sep 19, 2011 at 8:25 PM UTC
fed the birds
my monday. held out my hand,
and fed them mirth
from a lifeline pun.
blackbirds.
early morning
connoisseurs
i fed them
my monday.
all gone pecked. now, first suspect -
in a ****** of crows. i rose
from the damp. surveyed
the scene of the crime
and bled. no contest
nor are there ribbons given
even if you don't
want one. you'll find
another monday
with a stray
dog star... a crown
for a chipped
tooth.
it will always say " You shoulda' seen The Day Before...." then promptly -
plop on your stoop... and vaguely,
as if seen from three paces
behind stained glass...
Sunday sulks into view
like Dostoyevsky
belching "Hey Jude" backwards,
just strolling down
East, Main street
with an egg-cream
and a fist of
kettle corn.
soggy in his meaty paw
an earlier downpour
you slept through.
or maybe, this just happens to me ?
now then. birds fed,
i wandered off. biting my
upper lip to keep
Christmas in
my Edelweiss
grip.
left the birds a book called " How To Fly "
and they still flew
away.
Nov 6, 2012
Nov 6, 2012 at 10:41 AM UTC
A bite of meat
I dare not eat.
I'll have some fruit instead.
No milk for me
Why, can't you see?
I'd rather have some bread.
Faces haunting
Proteins taunting..
I don't want it if it's meaty.
You like to eat entrails
and brains,
A bit like zombies--beastly!
Hormone laden,
Child-sacrifice
to make the thing called "Veal".
I can't believe what you go through
for your tasty high priced meal.
Apr 29, 2013
Apr 29, 2013 at 1:22 PM UTC
voices, mirror glance inward-outward
-inward-outward-inanoutandinward
in simultaneous disease-like passion--
divine like bacteria kneading and bleep
-ing up to one to one against to one toward
a unity, a collective evolutionary force begin
-ning in a marshy wallow-- forward to a creature
slithers rocks unsure if fish or finger-- beyond unto
a sharp-claw carnivorous terror (the Divine Right of
Kings) and slowly, in the wake of the destruction the
shattered continental plate lifted like a carpet during
renovation violence, the bacteria stayed away and
under soiled-earth to slowly form toward the muddy
saliva of a strangely-fit mouse-rat....
through the dissipating wake of molten mist, a
sabertooth tiger yawns with a growled-tremor
and an after-bath shake-- ends a trampled scrap
under mammoth foot having indicted this panic
in its desperate mammalian hunger-- this bacteria,
kneading and bleeping, continues its one to one
against to one as a meaty slab metabolized by
opportunistic caveman feeding his cubs and his
loves before courage became the theoretical pond
-ering of Voltaire's and Descartes's and Camus's...
Nov 23, 2014
Nov 23, 2014 at 6:56 PM UTC
this fruit is rotting on my tongue.
and i just feel like crying.
this stress just seems to grab with with it's large meaty hands and suffocate me until i cannot focus.
i'm a morbid wallflower with no real intention on getting better at talking to people i don't know.
Jul 24, 2013
Jul 24, 2013 at 4:45 PM UTC
Succulent, meaty, ribs falling off the bone and drenched in a velvety, thick, sauce.
“Check please.”
Tender chunks of lobster tail bathed in sweet, drawn, butter.
“Thank you. That will be all.
Heavy, cream-coated, strands of fettuccine accompanied by fresh peas, Speck, and shaved Parmesan.
“I wish I could stay but I can’t.”
Filet. Rare. A veil of Roquefort and sautéed wild mushrooms in a Sauternes reduction.
“It's just not the right time.”
Perfectly seasoned carne asada with a creamy roasted poblano sauce, queso fresco and the cool, half-mooned, sultry innards of a Hass avocado.
“I'll call you tomorrow”
A decadent Kobe burger blanketed in cheeses, caramelized onions, crisp bacon, and a cap of unctuous foie grois.
“But thank you for everything.”
Peanut butter and jelly on white bread.
And you would have me forever.
Jul 17, 2011
Jul 17, 2011 at 4:42 PM UTC
Beneath the couch today I found one of your toenails.
It reminded me of the way your toes once scratched against mine
and I was disgusted because I thought those things resembled
rotten carrots mixed with the stuff I've seen come out of my cat.
It reminded me of the way your hand once brushed mine
and I looked down to see those meaty sausage fingers
carrying on in their meaty sausage way
by spreading grease and filth and must and finger dirt
all over my nice white sleeve.
And then it reminded me of the way I couldn't stand your yellowed teeth
because I knew you didn't like coffee and
that your only excuse was not brushing.
So I looked deeply into that aged toenail found
beneath my couch and amongst some dust
beneath my couch where you sat that once
and I thought this toenail was a portrait of you,
hidden below my couch like the Mona Lisa's missing eyebrows.
But I left that toenail beneath my couch where it fell
the night you took your socks off to show me your tattoo,
the night you kissed me with no socks on,
the night I tasted rebellion in a sockless kiss with yellowed teeth
and sausage fingers in my hair.
Because I stuffed that kiss beneath the couch too
and let it break apart from my foot-life like a carrot toenail.
But that toenail leads me to think that your sausage hands were pretty soft;
that you probably would have liked coffee if you knew I drank it
and then that you were always a working man;
those fingers were proof of a hard day's labour.
So the night you took your socks off for me, could be tonight again
and I'd have the guilty happiness in your sweaty palms I missed before,
then I'd be perfectly okay when pieces of you shed onto my carpet.
But I don't regret the toenail beneath the couch
because at least it's there.
Nov 12, 2012
Nov 12, 2012 at 11:35 PM UTC
so... it's no longer enough that
i learn your language,
into a p.s. of conversational
etiquette -
addressing the confrontational
assertion of the existence
of orthography,
minding your, Germanic,
metaphysical ********
and then...
i'm, supposed, to,
listen to your average citizen,
dictating rules,
like some sort of king?!
i'll drink a beer, walking
past the east ham central mosque...
and i'll be like:
getting the **** eyes ******
you stare -
in reply: you know what?
do it... **** it... do it...
make me a ******* martyr...
but i'm going to drink this beer,
feeding a solidarity of the 7/7 commuters...
hence my teasing...
once i'll burn scissors and
craft a tattoo on my arm...
once i'll put out a cigarette
on my left hand's knuckle...
the everyday englishman who "thinks"
he's king...
i'm thinking... plum hues
to replace mascara... with a *******
fist...
no... private property,
is private property...
now i'm gagging for a fist
frisking! i'm less trigger happy,
and more, european,
i.e. knuckles itchy!
i want to juggernaut something
down...
and then start biting into it!
any obnoxious englighman,
being a **** will satiated my
palette.
GNASH GNASH GNASH...
i want... a chance...
to scoop clean...
the "riddle" of meaty chicken
schnacks of drum-sticks...
fiddle fiddle, fiddle me something...
i want to engage in a 1, 2,
punch & bite something...
attempting to relieve itself
from physical confrontation,
having exhausted its verbal allowance.
Aug 7, 2018
Aug 7, 2018 at 10:03 PM UTC
"So all of this was because you liked me?"
"No, my love,
when I sang Ave Maria to wake you up to see you,
when I complained about the peach fuzz on your chin,
when I called you a ***** *** and that all you want is a hole to bone,
when I teased you for the way you say "hackneyed,"
when I walked over to smell and "guess" your shampoo (I'd known already),
when I let you cheat on games,
when I made fun of the constant holes in your socks,
when I decided to learn about baseball to figure out what so great about it,
and when I smacked you on the leg with a spatula for getting cheeky with me in the kitchen...
those were because I liked you.
But when I woke up two hours before you to make you breakfast,
when I sing sad love songs to you in my imagination,
when my tread skips a beat,
when I got so angry that someone talked bad about you
and I wanted to ******* rip their meaty heads off,
when my heart breaks to hear your hardships,
when I stayed up with you until 3:00 in the morning on the roof before I gave up
or again until 5:00 in the morning indoors a week before you left
when I didn't move away from you when our arms touched,
when I learned you stood up proudly gay in this brave new world
when I see you on an angle and you look so serious,
so pensive, so handsome and I sigh, sigh, sigh from afar
those were because I loved you.
And the list can go on and on and on."
Oct 10, 2012
Oct 10, 2012 at 10:50 PM UTC
My favorite color is yellow.
I doesn't seem like it by the looks of me, I know.
I'm all dark everything now
Dark sunglasses, dark hair
Dark clothes, trussed up, a rockstar late for her own concert
No kidding even my heart is black
black as the cold night's deepest obsidian
My mother insists it is yellow, though
She remembers me: I was five
little, skinny kid with pale skin and a large head
The first color I go to is yellow
Big old box of crayola jumbos with the eight colors
The crayon mighty meaty; huge in my little hand
In that big old box
Yellow was the shortest crayon stick
give me sunshine, lil baby.
Jan 5, 2014
Jan 5, 2014 at 2:57 PM UTC
Edie was caught in the claws of copulation.
She was attractive, with no roots showing
on the top of her scalp.
Great **** great *** could hold a conversation.
Everyday, she got into her workhouse of a car,
more home than her dingy apartment, and drove
to her first "appointment."
But on this day, the appointment that loomed ahead of
her had her shower cold and her face white.
She drove past an old movie theatre
and an abstract and title company with
the fanciest sign in town.
It was Edie's favorite.
She glanced out the window.
A regular ******* standing on the sidewalk was chatting
up a woman who looked bored stiff
and there was a young man a few jumps
away who couldn't hold his liquor.
"Pathetic," Edie muttered.
An average run-of-the-mill bar slouched behind
them and there were ridiculous looking people
spilling out the door.
But only those who had survived the night before.
Across the street, a newspaper dispenser ***** and chained
to a light pole stood content as its contents spilled from
it's belly like the guts of a dead gazelle.
Like the guts of it's readers.
Like the guts of a building out an open window.
Edie's ******* were sore and hurt after the
manhandling of last night.
They began with a ***** that got straight to
the point and then they did too.
He had advertised himself as "sweety but meaty"
and Edie discovered later
that his genitals were uncircumsized and below average.
Oh well.
Submission.
She had a headache in the morning and no aspirin.
Her decision was to stop later and get some.
But before then, she had something to take care of.
Something big that needed to be handled.
Something she hoped would be brief.
"Something," she thought, "that's for **** sure."
She pulled into a front spot in her black '98 BMW,
fixed her make-up, then her hair.
Edie closed her eyes, took in a rather large
amount of oxygen,
exhaled and stepped out of the car.
She had a hankering for eggs after all.
Feb 9, 2011
Feb 9, 2011 at 7:24 PM UTC