I hold you up to the unfiltered light billowing through the canyon, and life leaves your pathetic body and you shrivel. Oh, the endless torture I endure by the folds of your limbless body. Is everything connected? Can I get a verification on the connection status? Can I get some lubrication or something? A stimulant...a stimulant Fatima, dixie cup drinking. Bladder control has always been my forte. Will I stay or will I go? It's not will. It's just not. They blame it on anxiety. I blame it on the connection. So let's go to the metacarpal corridor and consult the figures...
On the golden goddess of Sicily...I want you, I will always want you. Those gorgeous hands. I'll go under. You can go under. I will tumble down a marble staircase for you golden goddess, I will crash through a poorly planted green plastic fence, I will roll through twigs and syringes, I will dodge 6 sets of infrequent automobile traffic, and I will swim to New Jersey for you, because after all, you edited the New York Monthly! They've given you a farm animal, I will give you a pathetic massage, for my hands are downright insignificant compared to yours, golden goddess.
On the yellow femured Georgian...You disgrace my favorite color but you are closest to my heart, and certainly my head. Faint dewdrop spinster. Delicate toetip icepick snarestone. Reeeeacccccoowwwww.
On the red sweatered South African...My senior column in Spectator is likely going to be about bleeding-heart liberals, and how I have (finally) figured out who to hate. Honey, consider it done. I've been wondering for a long time now, when you turn your back to me, are you masterbating?
On the bluebooted Sikh...tiny, tiny, I can't pronounce that, I guess you don't either. Ambition. Ambition. La la la...boy I've added so much by attatching the ethnicities. I like can't write about him now. Or is it a she? The figure seems to possess, in the words of...nah. From this vantage point, my perspective is skewed. I can't help. On me. Ambition. I'm done. Watch what I do with the next figure.
On the blue reptilian ostrich...Sneaky sneaky sneaky. A moan. A cry! A little device. Smoke on the water against the stench of horse excrement. Makin' movies like ferris wheel-starved children - it's perfect! Pound. Arena of my birth, right at centercourt, there i was, naked as the day I was naked in Maine under the white sheets with the flimsily locked door. I'll be fine, you won't! I slither like bawls, skinny little lizard-layered testicles, they are baaaaaaloooooooo.
On the small white ball casting a shadow the length of my torso...I am in sync. ha. Don't forget to pack() when you're done with that project Don Abuelito Sanchez. I can't resist 0 I just think about those days constantly, hearing my number called, running out to centercourt, grabbing the ball and going in for a finger-roll layup. Offsides hike! Offsides hike! They hold you up. to. the awe. some. show. here. now. watch the unfiltered billowing light smother you.
On Oscar...Fidel, I love you. You have taught me so much. I'm not talking about an ordinary man. People like him come along as frequently as do ice ages. He lives across the street from Aqueduct Racetrack in South Ozone Park, my hometown. He taught me how a human can possess 7 of Benjamin Franklin's virtues. He taught me how a corkboard can be the coolest looking thing in a garage. He taught me that barbecuing doesn't have to be a fucking Broadway production, and that sausage can be made from animals besides pork. He liked baby-back ribs, but I never got into them. It's because you have to use your hands and I don't like getting messy, and he showed me why saying stuff like that disgusts him. He made me self-conscious of my inadequacies, but he showed me how to fucking strut my stuff when I hit a conversation stride. He taught me how to hit a golf ball, he taught me compassion and how to be a fucking nasty dickhead. He taught me anger and he taught me to love people who love things. Fidel, if you read this, call me. 516-375-0272. ok? I love you, you were my first mentor, and I will weep endlessly at your funeral. Nick and Chris, you guys are so lucky. Also Fidel and I share the same birthday.
On Rebecca Romijn in X-Men...as the clouds sweep between us I take Mother Nature's broomstick, and ... (never before has CHCG seen such a bad train of thought).
On the purple centurion who didn't believe like Nicodemus...I admired his defiance, he continued to persecute people that pissed him off. The purple centurion ambled toward his wife in the charred meadow and they made love during the break between peacetime tollbooth guard. STOMP goes the ladybug, little red, bug blood and yellow-green oozy insides.
On the fertile cranium of the gravedigger...chop the ends of the branches off occasionally to ensure proper, evenly distributed growth. I believe the word they use nowadays is 'prune,' but i definitely could be mistaken. You have about 1000 angstroms to work with once you pass infrared light on the electromagnetic spectrum, and let me tell you, the gravedigger has done a fantastic job. He seems to have perfectly groomed some Arizona birch bark with vibrant green Shikoku leaves (an extra 500 angstroms, give or take). Oh, what a rogue and peasant slave am I!
On Bob Barker's soul...how much? The midas touch. Warning. Caution. If you smoke with me, Daddy, I'll make it worth your while, your eternal while the cameras stopped shooting, I caressed your forearm. I turned it...INTO GOLD!
On the terraces of Andalusia...I realized, repetition in small detail intrigues many people, but it doesn't just intrigue them, it completely stifles their intellectual growth. It has for me, anyway. I call it the "enchilada effect." (Mexico City 1900s -->Granada 1400s is way too much of a stretch so don't even go there.) You get a plate, the whole enchilada, if you will. You love all the shit in there but you just can't eat it because there's SO MANY little glorious components to digest. It's 10% zoom on a spreadsheet, ya know? It's sustainable development (without Sachs). It's the lower-class' mudejar ceiling. It's Brother Cajeb's Babylon, and his sister's bloodstains on Daddy's new tie, illuminated by FoxNews coverage of the "heightening insurgency" in Afghanistan.
On the disbelief of a Steve Williams centaur wearing golden pants that accentuate its ass, a blood-red velvet jacket, and a Fossil watch... (secret words never to be printed)
I see a wedding, and apparently it's human. From a tower a sniper protects the groom and bride. She is beautiful, unimaginably beautiful, and she is mine (unless a bullet from the sniper's muzzle hits the jump rope she'll swing during the ceremony). Or, I am still a lifeless sack of shit who can't afford a doctor. I'll check the connection one more time, but don't get your hopes up.
