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Now is the time for all retroactive poppies to succumb to the fate of their chromosomes. The neat brown cub scout leaps over the pimple-pocked demagogue as shaken instruments recall the time of every mother’s signpost: pygmy erythrocytes writhe as copper-bellied stroke victims count their dental fleas. Speak now and forever decay with fido’s folded daily news hugging your scented groin. The TV’s not so late as it is hypothetical. Nature mimics Art Carney as carnivorous waitresses brandish cryptic menus in Sanskrit phallography: in the deepening pulse of the background rise numerable focal planes locked in mid-air collision—no one listens.

Make haste but leave out the alarm clock, gruesome with imbeciles leaving for work. The drop of a cool cap accents the light blindly fumbling for hold in the slimy subway-surface malaisia. Still no one captivates little bro freak as he watches with faint growing nausea, soon to expose his deep-seated dismay at the burgeoning blister of his brain. Catching a cold he escapes into nothingness, lost in the flame of his corpulent ruse.

Seeming to dissemble, someone’s blinking phrase lies like a purposescrew in fruitless near-demise. Whining bards reek form and substance, caging from the pavement like rows of sharkfins lined in rows of tombstones. Dogs in mid-bite locked in death struggles harp the midnight gloom. Poachers seek to prove; “the point is lost! the point is lost!” from the rear windows of a Cadillac hearse careening down the exit ramp toward glimmering towel-shaped cases.

Schemes appear, resolve, dissolve, and blossom; moonlight spears cavort and jostle; tame white steers glaze hanged brothels; neophyte seers hit the bottle.

A short time later, miles away: little bro freak goes out to play. Laced with icons, holding his own, he stalks the mirrors clad in bone. Soflty.

You’re not the first to wish the worst, of several clones too weak to thirst. Portentious trophies gather dust. Amalgamates decay to rust. In hallowed graphs we place our trust, assumptions fast and furious.

Left alone, a greying shopper plucks only the recently thickened nodes from the balustrades that line the canoe. Songs escape briefly, then languish as it dawns. Opulent mongrels. Painted lakes. Grisly denizens, foaming poster-children, mawkish and puerile with stinking smiles reminding you that the tea water’s gone. Oh spare and dim! O rank and file! Anthrax-ridden sponsors lick the rays that fall from His white hands.

Life Without Googie

There is a band call the Virgin Prunes.
They are really groovy,
I love their tunes.
But, there is a dilemma plaguing me,
The departure of one,
My fave – Googie.
His hair is blond,
His hips curvaceous.
The clothes he wears never ostentatious.
He was the band’s feminine touch,
I surely will miss him,
I love him so much.

Lonnie Wolf
St. Shecky’s School for Boys
Age 7

The Threat of Rain

Hello empty page. Hello empty mind. Hello empty bedroom, Hello empty time. Hello on the inside, how are you today? I fear I hear an echo, have you gone away?

Hello Mister Grandeur, Hello Mister Plain. Hello Mister Please-Don’t-Touch, who is there to blame? Hello Mister Icicle, Hello Mister Heat, Hello Mrs. Wonderful, would you like a seat?

Hello Mister Near-at-Hand, Hello Mister Far. Hello Mister Need-a-lift? No, I have a car. Breathe in, breathe out, Mister Air. Sit down, stand up, where’s my chair? Lost the words, kept the beat, sang the song, quite a feat. Ate the food, felt no woe, bumped a rock, stubbed a toe. Tried to stand, but fell to a knee, grabbed the nearest sturdy tree. With its help I stood up straight, looked at my watch, found I was late. Limped along the same old path, found a pool and took a bath. The water felt cold, I shook it off, but when I got out, I’d caught a cough. I limped on further, steady pace, as if I knew I was running a race. But with the toe, and the constant hack, first place, second place I did lack.

But wait, not far, I see a line. I run right to it, I find it’s a sign. I crawl on further, scraping my hands, look at my fingers, they’re buried in sand. I look in the distance, around the next bend, see the real finish, so strengthen and mend. My hands become free, I stand on ten toes, I pass by the finish. No one cares. No one knows.

I walk to the locker, shower then shave, walk with the street signs, head to my cave. No power is burning, I turn on a light, look in the mirror, cringe at the sight. Then deep in the mirror, an image appears, it’s distant and fading, it doesn’t seem near. It stands far behind me, tearing the wall, clawing for sunshine, seeking it all. I stare at the shadow, at work with a pace. It keeps digging deeper, as if being chased. The job takes a while, but reaches its end. The image goes no where, the wall doesn’t mend. I turn around quickly, feeling a breeze, seeing no sunshine, I breathe out with ease.

The room is still empty, the quiet remains, I walk to the window, my wrists hold no chains. The clock ticks once, a distant bell rings, I look out the window, a bird sits and sings. I lean out to listen, the wall touches skin. My fingers touch something that had never been. I look at it, study it, decide it’s a crack, can’t find an answer, so jump in the sack.

Morning brings sunshine, also a chill, a fresh brew of coffee, the air remains still.

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The fiddler and the joker spent too much time in the balcony. Tess up and took the carriage and left them to wander in the wretched mist outside the abbey. A leper crawled from the shadows and pleaded for absolution. The joker rendered it with a vanilla wafer and then knighted him with his battery driven vibrator. The fiddler  sweated out a sentimental lay and a squad of policemen came to disperse the growing mob.

Some kid with a suggestion of a beard sat down on the curbstone and started to draw. This lurching wino with a red beard and dark glasses peered across his shoulder. Unzipped and pissed onto the kid’s pad. There followed a fight. The wino lost two finger to the kid’s angry knife. I think the wino, who used to be able to draw rather well, died. I think the kid died too. It was just two column inches in the Daily News.

The phone rang. Tristan reached across the sleeping form of his beloved and lifted the perfect object from its holy cradle. Yes? Blake? Yes? We got a beached whale down at the cove. Ya coming?

Tristan dressed in five. He threw some water into his eyes and stopped just long enough to creep his tongue into Isolte’s ear. Back soon’s I can. Her lip curled in maybe a smile maybe a snarl and he was out the door.

He smelled the thing even before he saw it. It lay on its back, in five feet of water, looking like an Oldenburg doorstop. He pinched with his thumb and fingers its rubbery side. It made him think dark thoughts about his first wife. As the other geeks from the Society measured and took blood samples, a municipal employee was dialing pet food companies.

Orbert

Orbert woke up screaming. He knew it was silly; to be araid of living things, but he just couldn’t help it. If only it didn’t crease his style of operating in the New World. There, apart from the splendor and the wonder of his hair and the fine tawny gold of his appendages, he might surely have lost his mind. He did like his competitions, though. On a weekly basis, he would pit himself against a trained security dog. He would locate a protected bottle shop or pawnbrokers’ and break recklessly in after hours. He never stole a thing; he only cared for the sudden rush of adrenaline that came when his eyes and the dog’s eyes met. He would wrestle then, in ordinary flannels and a pair of workman’s gloves. He took especial delight whenever he could twist the dog’s jaws our of their hinges. They didn’t let him reign long as champion, however. Authorities broke his glasses and stole the keys to his car. Now all Orbert can do is to wake up screaming.