Attack of the Hyrax!

The fellowed has-beens chortled with delight at the song they had most sinfully devised:

“Doobly gong nimbits my face is green in lands of gints,
Those farmers have no toes!
Tra Laa Dookie lathe, My midget’s gone. Ashtray!”

Then they walked some more.


X


Can your baby hear?
Can your baby hear the suffering of millions? Does your baby want to be here? Sometimes I think maybe. . .
Maybe it doesn’t.


X


The sequelling of cohorts becomes more than just unhinged if allowed to work completely unfettered. Bikkety BAM! You should learn to face forward my friend, or face the possibility of shock and damage. What is this monstrosity!?!?!?


X


Halliburton Pete and York Region Dave owned a co-op. it specialized in fake newspaper clippings that prison inmates could hang on their cell walls so that other inmates would think they killed nuns and puppies with weapons made out of baby teeth when really they were just in there for mail fraud.
The co-op didn’t do so well.


X


Beans
are marching to war with
bagels
of plenty, the dispute stems from
bread and butter’s
unending dislike.
Cream cheese
can only be seen with
veggies -tomatoes - cucumber
and remain fashionable.
Fruit
will never be in style.
Cereal
killers are fond of
milk
because of its suffering.
Soda crackers
like no one.


X


City leaving lights bereaving,
obeying the spectacle of air and sound,
slowly repeated to ears resting on the closed heads of martyrs.
Unwilling at best to make tools of voices.
Lights leaving it all to air and sound to go on repeating.
Bludgeoning on;


unheard.
unheard.
unheard.
unheard.

X


The driver nimbly picked up puddles out of sync. Once clean side walks scream! Raging of pants and the no longer white below. Years of experience, second nature becomes me. His first nature, seemingly, was no longer good enough. There was paint all over me, I was a mess.

My dad never called me an artist.


X Ode to Mike Smith


Strange stuttering old men fidgeting at the constant unblinking rage that manifests itself in overloaded carts stacked improperly. SMITH! SMITH! CHORTLE! RAGE! Subsiding continually within his mother. . . waiting . . . to shoot his guns.

YOU CAN’T GET THERE FROM HERE.