The sheep that look like over used goat nipples are grazing in a meadow field beyond a sudden runny- nose- dribbling Texas cold streak. I sit in this chair with wheels, slouching down, eating Echinacea, and drinking vitamin c with a spiked straw.
And outside cars drive around doing things, going places, like maggots feasting on chicken bones in a garbage can. Schedules, responsibilities, people, aliens, and the cylindrical resplendent globe bellows an echoing scream in the distant streetlights of ear drummed wandering.
A truckload of love is waiting at the top of a choo choo freight train, attached to some messed up gut hut out in Egyptian belly dancing sandstorms. I rev up my big wheel and hit the streets in search of that yearning fast lane.
Attacked by knives. Swollen thoughts. Beautiful smiles. Water soaked socks. Intense sugary sour yelps blaze across the field of Hindu cows, between the goats pink milker. Rolling around in the farmer's dried roach field. She's automatic. She's fizzling electric fireballs of desire.
Sniffing every corner and lifting a leg, squirting scents in the whiskers of another coyote cat turd. Now I'm running naked from my own shadow, and the man in dark glasses who is playing blues guitar in the other room is singing about the endless life cycle, the timeless state fairs, the coasters near hot dog stands, dart throwing prize losers, and winners. She's dangerous. The straw is a toxic embryo.
A fluffy greenish balled up sack of herbal veins is dancing around next to me with a dirty cowboy hat on. The motions. The sun rising from cold creaks, sheik's, torn clouds, planes flying over, with gassed up pilots, and terrorist passengers. Tourists with visa's. He takes his glasses off, lays guitar on lap, slides across the railroad, screaming about my baby now. She shakes like a loose mind. When my baby walks, people stop and stare. Red Devils. Turquoise angels in tuxedoes. torpedoes, toes, shoes, feet, nails.. turn- eee-- kits.
Gypsy- ripped -black -cat -eyed -stupid -brilliant -curdling- interruptions from British long distant relatives. Double strokes, triple nervous break downs flow in the family tree. I'm going to invent an ice that never melts, that way I would never have to move to make another drink. Lazy, Lovely, Lumpy, loser, lover, winner, whiner, whipped, worms, words.
Alone is everything, alone and alive. Satisfaction is everywhere; I'm a bundle of joy wrapped in a torture bag, hung upside down, with hungry rodents, nibbling like machines on my flesh. I always manage to escape. Never needed crutches. Never wanted molders. She talked way to much. She complained even more.
Smoking Nyquil. Sipping my soul. Illusions in the skips. Looking out the window, smelling the air. Snorting nutmeg. Eating saltines. Fucking up again, and again. Lapping on luxurious silk. Burning down walls around me. Swimming in Morphine. A second past. A zillion years ago.
The man in the other room is suddenly playing a kazoo upside down between my books. We laugh. We rev up our big wheels. Head out to that sometimes-invisible fast lane between the plastic tourists, the terrorists, the teachers discount. Dreams of old friends with boxes full of tasty white boulders. The dam dreams.
She never even knew about the hospital TV's turning into elephants, cat scans, wheel chairs, the ice sippin conclusions in the never asked questions. She fucked like a goddess virgin porn star. Tube coming out my cock, tube coming out my skull. First thing I need to do is vomit. Hospitals. Stingy doctors. Inventions, decay, sunrises, rain, goats nipples in fields next door, catching my shadow. People, aliens, cures, annihilation, candy lands.
My final bait- stuck in- spilled milky sky- hasn't shaved in days. Vitamin C- shriveling Hindu cow burgers. I just pulled a three of clubs out of my ass. Fragments and memories. Dial tones. Questions on the other line. Snapping back for a second. Calm down Mr. Whiskey troll. The head spins. The fucking bill trackers, tractors.....
Suddenly.....'Ding ahh ling aahh ling,'
phone calls, man, I hate phones..
"Can I have that book on your hold stash!, how attached are you to it!?"
"Not much, go ahead and take it, I don't care."
This story Copyright 2001 Nicholas Morgan.
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