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that is the sound escaping the throat of one wandering about with stiff joints and grizzly smiles and fences around its insides. strangler's hands like shiny pudges of christmas hams come forth and pat one’s back with heavy plodding motions to insure the abundance of moisture strings streaming between the two objects. shiny beads of spittle. the strangler’s hands will be devoured someday. I will eat them for christmas dinner my head glossy with moral codes. and i am sitting in plush maroon folding chairs dusted with grape-juice breath in a curious state. trip up the stairs trip down the stairs what is the time of day. where is the place to go. perhaps it is under the staircase! inhaling dust head on the splintered underneath fold, fold. inside you go. bird cages and fences, a soft day that you must ignore with firm verses and the prospect of buried lives, dark and stuffy crochet tea-pot hats the color of the past. clink, clink thud thud. that is where you must go. become tame and comb your hair and learn to lie. there now. if that is it i would fill it in fill you nasty chocolate bunnies with tartar sauce.
by The JavaScript Source
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