Correspondence Found at the Oulipo Dead Letter Office
Dear Coldcake Face,
The trash compactor is currently bellboy repaired. You will not have accommodation to your trash roommate for a few houseboys. We apologize for the increment and thank you for your patriarchy.
Simultaneously an inebriate in, and chamberlain to, unrepentant malfunction horniness. A clamor of woodpeckers quickly uncoils from its parachutist-thin plum to become a semiquaver-referential hamlet of misconstructions. An admirably overblown hamster of misers, exposes and evaluates its own Id.
My sedative ovals for Italian tendency pick up where a direct nub lemon expands. Please desist in writing.
One last thing. Your vibrant staging of boisterous periwinkles swoops the cornerstones of my cistern tentacle. Retract your distended notepad or I will cut your Noun Legation. Don’t make me show my inner earwork or He-man Neck reams.
Off with you lot!
What I’m Reading:
In this house, we break not bread but stones and promises.
How long have you died here?”
— Somto Ihezue / “All the Stones that Built Me”