A Love Story


The angered mobs are insoled and marked in red soil. There are faces that are like children in the pews. But it is not un-ushered in the blank speech. He is bald and whispered hoarse. The deathless worm. It is the un-god. They think to kill the faced that have undug the unlifed life.


She makes copies of the tapes and sells them to the people in the streets of the market place. She makes the in and out and the long roll and she tapes the in and out and sells them. She sells the copies. The ripped apart, legged and un-legged, will liken the day to the dethroning of the heretics and the un-god.


The king wrestles fat women and eats out of a coke can. I don’t know how he does that. I think he splits the coke can with his pocket knife and then he pours pudding into the half can. His mother packs the pudding for him. She kisses him on the forehead. He says she has whored herself long enough. He says the pudding helps him wrestle the fat women. The women have yellow skin and eat fast food. They make noises when the walk. He wins money when he makes them look like walruses and little baby blue whales:



At last, I go to the circus. Sally says that she will go with me.


“Fat Women! Fat Women!” The circus, the circus. We will all go to the circus and yell: “Fat women, fat women!” It will finally be that time when Sally touches my leg and says that she likes me better than Bobby.

Oh fat woman, let him wrestle you good. When the death worm rings her neck at the end, I should have a kiss and then I can punch Bobby in the face because his mother is still a whore: “Your mother is still a whore,” I can yell. “My father paid for her last night,” I can yell. It will be fun if the king wrestles the fat women in the cage and makes her turn lion sounds and giraffe marches.

I wait for this to happen and the rested quiet is squandered into my dim.

On the other side, the painted fans video tape themselves. There will be more, lated and lasting in the after houred hemmed hell: this palace has scoured into its own feebled vomit. Rejoice, I think. The king is near to finished below.


We will. We cherished have lasted and lactated.

But outside, they are in tents and they have already turned their skin into reddened ribbons. It is not truced and dared to burn moats.


When I get stabbed in the back and my head turns into a watermelon I think: oh, this is not really the circus.


No comments: