we broke up

Fissure Kitty, Faun & I

I tuned arpeggios at 6 and 16.

​Fissure kitty at a neighbor’s glance—under the shake-up of a manic-depressive trend—laden with oppressive fudge, in August heavyweight. I initiated it.

My fissure sunbather fuzz, with fanfare drums—from Miami to Kankakee—to backfire applause and Janus-faced adulation.

Faun joined us then on an anachronism-fueled jag. We didn’t make a record until we tarred 48 housefeathers in Idioteque, Arizona.

I witnessed faun’s beauty—an undergarment so severe—it was a triumph. A homily to downy wool.

A “hello” at Arrowhead—followed by another record. Produced by the very weightlifter convicted for ordering 40 Chomp Bards about in a wanton manner.

I took fissure kitty and faun for an early morning jaunt in search of Beatles-subcontract-hairstyles. The barbers motored with clippers called Mr. Potpourri, Ms. Headlamp, and Mrs. Dingleberry.

Another jaunt. The peace broken. I didn’t understand why faun and fissure kitty fought so intensely and frequently to the syncopation of the weightlifter’s discharges.

We broke up the band.

We separately formed the BeetleGees, The Third Dinghy, and Neil Dichotomy.

None of us separately ever as artful or popular as we had been together on The Budgie Enema of His Benefactress.

Some call for a reunion. Some are nonplussed. Most never knew or ever cared.

“The fog comes
on little cat feet.”

— Carl Sandburg / “Fog”

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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