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Sitting in a damp refrigerator box, wondering (ODE) Basque (Glosa) by zodiac
Sitting in a damp refrigerator box, seriously wondering what sort of
colossal hubris wcrystal lane swiftw is perpetrating upon the earth
right now.
"Don't you have better things to think about?"
I long to ask.
"Like whether Denny's would consider naming other sandwiches along the
lines of 'Moons Over My Hammy', and what names they'd pick. Or
pedophiliac fantasies. But I don't." Yet I examine my earwax.
Stringing together present participles, gerunds, appostives, anything
but the present indicative (unless in pidgen Spanish), my writing being
in fact completely barren of fluid narrative drive. I watch a one-year-
old kid waiting with his parents for a city bus, smiling, waving at my
box, maybe. Or maybe just waving the way infants wave, at nothing.
Maybe I could... but no. I am transported nowhere but CLS' haunting
website photos.
Sunshine jangles on his infantile nose, aptly described here as
infantile, since he is in fact an infant - a fact which I believe I have
already mentioned.
Unclothed, we roll down a long interstate exit ramp fabricated by
overpaid state workers. They tear it down every year and rebuild it,
just to keep from being sent farther down the highway. They like this
town.
The asphalt
simmers our infantile skins, smelling like burning tires. My skin, I
mean, which is not technically infantile.
He is really clever, while also being intelligent. He tells a dirty
joke, which I don't usually like. But this one is really funny and
about Jesus.
His beauty, furthermore, strikes me as strikingly beautiful.
Touching him, even in a 'fatherly' way, would create a state of arousal
like I have not been achieve with women.
Fire = pleasure. Scars = pleasure. Rose thorns = pleasure. Why then,
can't risk of incarceration in almost any of the 50 states while
indulging a twisted masochistic pedophile fantasy = pleasure? Answer me
that, Ms Swift!
In my dream, Mr Infant (for so I choose to call him) discusses matters
of great importance while I listen raptly:
(1) terrorism and 9/11
(2) the pros and cons of Bush's tax cut plan [we're both pro.]
(3) how moved we were by The Passion of the Christ, which we have both
seen exactly the same number of times [23!]
(4) how sex is bad
(5) how we each know exactly the same number of gay people [one].
(6) going to Wal-Mart at midnight in flannel sleep-trousers, which we
both do
(7) and his own beauty and skill at sword-fighting, which is really
something to behold.
Wet-dreaming loudly in my cardboard box, completely inhibited and self-
loathing, feeling my biological clock ticking like a train bomb, showing
no intention of ending this string of adverbial clauses with a main or
independent clause. Wreathed... Ephemeral...... Adornment.........
After a moment... I feel warm like something warming that warms me with
its warmth. Cliche and cliche.
Smoke calligraphies my eyes as my box-mate lights a pipe in this wet
blanket of a damp cardboard box. I take that first strong hit and it
brings tears to my eyes like the stinging tears of pleasure or something
such, for (clearly) I've already lost interest in this entire project
and am ready to hit Submit and sink back into a crack-induced doze and
my own stupid unorthodox Baptist-Student-Union (mis)conception of
morality,
leaving damnation and utter poetic suckification for the experts.
Votes: (green: user, blue: anonymous)
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Arithmetic Mean: 7.5384617
Weighted score: 6.855764
Overall Rank: 299
Posted: March 23, 2004 10:56 AM PST; Last modified: March 23, 2004 12:18 PM PST
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