Quit

Dozens of artificial moles designed to ferret out your true intentions — your riverbed of stubbornness. 

Residencies found that many such moles used one of two operations in accordance to discordant heartbeats — that which lies at your moribund center.

Daybreak comes in breathless spasms on the  off-chance that you might have an empathic bone in your feculent body. At least two of these moles are hairless and feckless. That bodes poorly for you.

There comes a caterwauling survivor choking on your cutwater half-crowns. This year’s going to be the year you smack into the approachability windshield — spew your useless contents in a cul-de-sac.

You are a backside heathen brewing a living on a barren, windswept wasteland. 

I quit the human race, if you’re counted among us.

What I’m Reading:

Is there a wife for a viking?
A pair of socks in a poem?
Beetles and sticks in a box? Bright
bait. Bright bait. You notice what has
gone into the picture. Bite it.

— R.F. Langley / “Cook Ting”