Gristle grey ham mash made in Puerto Twinkie. OURS.
Three thousand teeth making mash digestible further and acting as grinding corrugated gateways.
Paste not slip-grunted out through choked blue lips slips down the esophagus to tunes of anthemic garage rock.
The river is a face.
The face is beautiful.
Sustenance sustained in patterns is altered by theory prattle or dead eyed jocular stock responses.
Thousands of tiny fingers on hundreds of tiny hands are massaging all to a state of passive apathy.
Kirk T. Rosenthal once said “If death give us plenty, let life be a vast nothing.” And all God’s children said, “Amen.”
Who let the city dwellers have chickens? Don’t you know that is the first step towards a free thinking society! If I were the chickens, I would let the children in on the little secret. The sacred little truth that everyone has an egg to lay.
Well anyway, the river used to be like hair running its own course down the small of someones back.
And now all our tails are tucked neatly inside our assholes.