Tuesday, August 26, 2008

flavor mac and trac



Lugging hot peppers and wax and people calling names, the box of salt and stew gave three high fives and went to the store for some rock salt clever and big. It started to rain on the way, the way it would do if you stopped to think about it, and nobody said anything about it, just walked and took cream camera pictures, laughed, and stopped doing all those things. They coughed and struck noon, lunched on gold beans, nothing more today. Nothing more.

A door opened for no reason at all.

Everyone took one cabbage each, one that wasn't really a cabbage, and threw it at other non-cabbage cabbages, gave pork to the doctor to eat, who would then eat it and proclaim angrily things. It's a soup, it's a shirt of pork, a suit of pork, no one stopped it from being pork. The doctor called her mother, her mother called the plumber, and the seven deadly sins called me late for dinner.

“View this ridiculous red,” said Fred to his glove. The doctor made a weapon of her boxes, looked like a canny kind of trumpet. This is where everyone made ducks out of ducklings, in 20 years or so of deep thought.

There was a front door and a side door, and the doctor had made a soda and fizz, or a fizz and giraffe, or a fizz. The doctor and her mother and the man called Fred.

It's time for a picnic. The end is nearly near. My heart is putridly forgetful about things like this, that, and more. More. Sugar, seven men, me, seven men, sugar, sugar, sugar, and me. Seven of them went home with bruised behinds, took pills made of garlic and toffee cod, stood on crates, used their eyes for the last ten seconds of the time, before cutting them with porridges and suit flares. They coughed and hoped no one heard.


The flavor was red and brown spotted, rectangular and solidly built, with red lips and brown sauces cutting upward and around in flayed engines. It looked to the doctor and such like a gold red hat of cotton moth men belief systems. She stood on clubs and splinters, waited for a cough reset, so she could have a talk with the glove of Fred and Fred's thoughts. Such things were old and green and not enough time was devoted to them.

“Snooky,” said the mother and her two ass-riding cob doggers. “Shut the sans sauce cat, gut the worms, and produce nausea cat planes for clasping!” She did three somersaults in my mind, although not in anyone else's, and I immediately recognized this. That's not important.

The doctor, who was wearing yellow stains of cat, said in reply, “The check is in the mail, the rain is of cheese and cloth, mostly cheesecloth really, and I hate you and all that you touch.” She patted her clasps, which were too tight.

A flayed old cat man, grandfather, sir gauntlet type of creep, old and flayed, stayed quiet for the first few things said, about 20 minutes. He then twirled, but only once, and gave roof-of-mouth blessings at loud intervals. His crack showed its essence and ballooned the dog pile to dust boats, making everyone uncomfortable, but not me, who wasn't even there. It's hard to say if that is important or not, so I will not say.

Golden spaniel chilled a clock of lox bats, threw ducks in the sandwich, which quacked cries of duck doom, polluted the norm. We let go of doctor's head, which was in a clamp of toothpaste and iron. She nodded and stopped nodding, and her mother did not nod.

The doctor's mother waited for everyone to stop moving, which was bound to happen, and then whipped out a red card with sordid concepts, blinked quickly and in mesmeric patterns, cut each of the people present a shot long way with paper, and replied to no one, “The bologna sandwich is stupid. Don't try to weasel out of this. I am short and cupid.” She ducked for hours and no one noticed any longer.

There were sorts of pants I cannot mention.


Gobs of second cut from grass paper dot the dots of cloth waning the true feelings of my aunt Selma. Selma shines in these matters, like a clucking bar graph, and she waits until no one thinks she's worth anything to give fingers. That's the way with her fingers. Selma is crass and cold sometimes.

The dog and Selma didn't get along. They clubbed a mother's uncle and cried about it, but no one saw crackers. That's the kind of face we were wearing and speaking about at the time, and I'm not ashamed. I died a little heart clock waiter boil, and Selma slipped on dog wire and Tabasco sauce before continuing on her rant and wire hanger business. I was grateful for her head lure.

“Shine black cloths in the Seth weapon,” she said under my breath, “then cup the dog lover's old frog breath mitt sense,” and furthermore, she also said, “good chapping lad friend. Cook and don't cook all of the time.” The time, the time.

The brown, the orange. The bait, the lure. The shed cackle.

I wait and don't think, then Selma comes and gives me marbles, and I roll them down and up, more successfully down, and think about proper etiquette. I am made of half-onions and onion halves. It is not the time to remember the doctor yet. Cummerbund head and cloth tapestry, the axle is black and faced. I eat heads of duck.

Selma is right there, being auntish and peckish and prude, cupping her globs of module staff. I whisk her away for a while.

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