Tamp-Stamp Down

She felt transcendent being recognized as thee tamp-yam whisperer. Everyone in her neighborhood Smorebucks acknowledged her tamps—so long ignored. Yes, finally, she was the best yam-tamper there was—the supreme of the arty fistful—able to keep mandrills at bay.

Oh, that young woodpecker there awash in tight sweetener, it pleased her to know such cremation—such pulchritudinous cremation limned the windows eastward.

Then an escapologist, a grand escapologist—a landowner that impaled her cinnamon bulbs once, so she was forced to acknowledge his expedition—such was at her tamp and cranked.

Now she espied that mandrill with the gaudy epaulets screeching at the Monday madwoman. Aspired to be the pinpoint tamper fanatic—frenetic—such charisma, such magnetism.

Here at this mean tackle, barely able to contain her greatness, such a tamp-smith, so unnaturally adroit with the creepers of incisive pack-ology, she made her grandiloquent show. (Forced in that moment as she was.)

That mandrill copied her moves. Looked like the statesmen at her, while moving his eyes in the exact mantle and tamping a ratamacue—so blue, so cretinous—a neurosis rippled through the assembled crowd. Thus, the storied tamp-stamp down—the showdown at Smorebucks—the grand tamp-down terror began.

“she was lovely the way agony in the smallest bursts could be.”

— Justin Phillip Reed / “Borderline”