Yet more tidbits from the nary dusted, more darker corners of my mind.
I know things people don’t know. For instance, look at Bob. He has gone for days complaining about the reek of excrement following him around. What he doesn’t know is, during an intense congress with the toilet, he had unknowingly gobbed a piece of stink onto his finger during the wiping of his buttocks. As a result, when reaching for an itch deep inside a nostril before heading to the sink to lavese los manos, he inadvertently created his condition.
Plastic eating microbes harnessed to consume landfills go awry, and cleanse the world of petroleum based products. False hearts disintegrate and fill the ribcage with blood. Cars leach into dust that blackens the wind, leaving astonished drivers staggering out of a crumple of steel.
He found himself embarrassed by outward displays of masochistic camaraderie, more so when perpetuated by men well beyond the teenage years. It was as if he felt there were certain quarters to communications, that it should be undertaken austerely.
Bob farted and Rob said, “I hate it when you pull rank on me.”
It’s the Boneyard Jive,
Not found in just any dive,
Just when you take a dirt dive,
It’s the Boneyard Jive!
X: …so to explain this, I’ve got an analogy for you—
Y: My God. He called me an analogy.
Z: I don’t know what that means, but it’s grounds for a good beating.
X: Hey, wait, I was jus—CRASH! BANG! BOOM!
“Look around you! The still deception,” Master Shoshen smiled.
“So you are saying there is a conspiracy a-foot, Master?”
“Yes!” the monk beamed. “A conspiracy of self-deception!”
We are just stuff inside stuff.
Neon hags patrol Catharsis Square, strange ideograms glowing under their short skirts and fuck me pumps. Raucous crows scatter in the passage of their marks, young lecherous men in sharp suits who flash small denominations and pick the women up in dented cars.
The package read: “A new fun flavor!” She wrinkled her nose and brought a morsel to her lips. “O! So this is what fun tastes like!” She dug in, great powdery drifts of confection snowing from her greedy fingers.
“That man, he’s always going someplace; he smells of somewhere else.”
It’s a powerful thing, to shape a false real.
He swallowed the gaudy morsel just as there was a newscast announcing Napalm Truffles caused spontaneous combustion in aged humans and shouldn’t be taken by individuals older than forty-five. Whoops, he said. And that was that.