parlance and mockery


the night past, I worked in shining crimson, were the words:
Hob Anagarak. a wholesome start to any aroma or scent,
jelly drip, nicotine phantom, or tumorous rend.

never have I known this overblown. It runs through my toxic
Les Miserables mainframe like Sweaty Junkie #24601, weeping weasel
for setting sun. lately, chaos has been a dizzy Foot Clan flunkie.

the vapors are iridescent. The sludge slides down the crescent
of penumbra into Chinatown. The lumberjack saws through the
invisible man, so bring your ID for principal scan.

yeah, Bill Murray is a bitter tonic, and those Special K protein shakes
are vile. Will a bottle of Royal Crown smooth the Miracle Mile?
I recall the previous pole vault into La Brea;
it was kind of a bumpy landing.

in valleys we task our elbows on strata. Casey Jones and
the day after tomorrow play the violin in astrological penance.
Blacksuited Spidey on a Friday night, dateless and outta web.
With great responsibility comes death sentence.

mule-kick the grumpiest man in the happiest town on Earth and
confiscate his bullets, squeeze Twinkies into his hands
until the heavenly white filling smears his grime.
His ruptured ire tickles the chimes.

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