sing “boogieman”…

(misfire?)

Even though I’ll be in the red, I’ll be under. Your footfall sounds like a peg leg stamping. Tap into your urethra with a rusty catheter and maybe you’ll strike oil. If you’re diligent, you’ll be indigent. If you read a dull book about Pol Pot it doesn’t diminish the sheen of his hair. I once wished I could use Afro sheen. I thought I might be able to stick a pic in my hair, now I buzz it to the skull. If you were a carpenter and I was a baby would you nail me to a tiny crucifix? Would you marry me anyway? Why do these neurons fire (misfire?) certain troublesome memories at random? Why are my axons so warped? What was that about?

I wish it didn’t sound like an outboard motor was running in my bathroom.

Then you harp:

“A volunteer committee of resident adult ‘Friendly Goblins’ will deliver candy (all pre-wrapped) to every apartment that signs up for a visit.  The Goblins (1 or 2 per visit) will admire your child’s costume and laugh, shriek or ooh-and-ahh as appropriate.  The Goblins, of course, will be wearing masks and will remain at a social distance from members of your household.”

“Seriously?”

“I’d rather listen to Victoria Williams sing ‘Boogieman.'”

“Ah, go on and file your $750 tax return, and write off your coif to the tune of $70,000. You twit!”

“You fill me with inertia!”

“Soon the volunteers will arrive
and they’ll take the body,
including the wings
to the landfill.”

— Julio Pazos Barrera / “Pegasus Autopsy”

About istsfor manity

i'm a truncated word-person looking for an assemblage of extracted teeth in a tent full of mosquitoes (and currently writing a novel without writing a novel word) and pulling nothing but the difficult out of the top hat while the bunny munches grass in the hallway. you might say: i’m thee asynchronous voice over in search of a film....
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