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The Elk Chronicles: Moon Sirens and Monsters 1A gentleman elk held a gathering at his house where several individual's had arrived to converse. Everyone there was an elk, and they were completely naked except for purple and yellow tweed jackets. Snow clung to the elk antlers like gold gilded onto a Baroque dream and they stood on their skinny hind legs.
Elks are majestic creatures. When an elk drinks whiskey he will stamp around aggressively while his beady eyes dart around with fury, seeking to find a lack of beauty or injustice to rampage against with their bodies. Elks will also stamp around aggressively when they are nervous. Next door there was a monster dance party. The elks were nervous.
Under the respectable gentleman's Moose house, expansive vaults of silk and cashmere fabrics sat pilled up in mounds. In the old times these fabrics had been woven into massive blankets with depictions of moose heads on them. Moose value silk and cashmere more than any other treasure. But these treasures were left alone and in the dark. Som
Unnatural Decay Under a Strange ChurchThere's a white shelled transvestite ladybug crawling across the word "Underwear" on a Craigslist browsing computer screen in the public library.
Then it flew away into a bee's nest in the attic. Here is your epitaph: nettle tincture honey is a sweat curse and friendly lies are a pained dessert. Pretend that bee sting poison is an opium syringe, ladybug.
But the scarlet letter was her bloody joke when a gay social assassin posed as rogue busy bee named Ahab, crouched about to shatter a burgundy shelled secret like a harpoon through a stained glass window.
Across the library St. Asmodeus felt a chilled dagger through his lead filled heart when passing kids threw an iced snowball through the church's window. The summer before, a night creeping praying mantis had broken in and died. Now the glass fell with wet snow and crushed the dead mantis who had stood erect with patient lifelessness until then.
Then the raw moon beams shone down to melt the unnatural metal into a wood encased pool on
ConiumIf not being good enough wasn't a punishable crime
If bees stung vitamins instead of shooting up poisons
If hate burned the same as love, two ends of the same fuse
If reality was more like my favorite movies
Then maybe life would be nice
I tried to just dream
but it seems to me that we keep these sweet dreams corked in a hemlock polluted wine in a cracked bottle. The poisons age sweet amid the pool of wine. The dream has stopped up pain but the pain encapsulates dreams on all sides and leaks through.
Like the captain of a ship I thought I could go where I please on oceans make of dreams. But this boat was a hoax. I command a boat in a bottle.
And my dreams might really try to be what they seem
I'd like to think dream friends might really care
But when dream feelings combat waking pains
It is a battle where my side fights steel with air
Real foes defeat the ones that aren't really there
My army of hopes evaporate with this morning breeze and I am left alone.
A bad chemist squeezes triethylamine into glass tubes hanging off latex white walls as her partner moves a black queen diagonally. The bad chemist takes off her gloves and moves to the board and thinks: "Eyes are made of blood jelly, though a slight of the hand will toast that optic nerve like staring at our butter hue sun."
Her partner, an older chemist surnamed Langer, once burnt an eye out years before in a lab where an accident happened back in the 1980s.
She moved a piece and thought; "A crisp eye is natures stale mate: a marriage to leave you singular in vision." Her move won her a rook but lost her the friendly game because Langer cheated when she wasn't watching.
"A single vision is a monotonous story, and an eye for opportunity is a sixth sense." So Langer mused as he walked out to his car for lunch. "I'll go to one bar and divide my money for absinthe, a supernatural drink."
Two detriments are but one vice as several ghouls and a succubus in a human body. Her hair's to die
Any morning of the week you can walk into your local knock off brand grocery store and find stacks of newsprint papers on your left as you walk in, wiping snow dust off your shoe onto the mat before the crystal flakes melt past the leather into your now soggy black cotton socks.
Not one minute in the dairy milk perfumed air after you walk in through automatic sliding doors, then past windows barring gusts of snow dunes, and there are newspapers. Newsweek, Times, Global something are all there but you pass them for the local paper.
The winter moisture that had soaked into your skin now has already evaporated and the paper grates against your skin as you pick up the local paper. You look up and feel for silver change in your pocket and walk over to the counter where no one else stands before the cashier. At 7am everyone is either in school, on their way to work, at work, or sick in bed. Except for you, because you're different. Your skin is as dry as everyone else's but since last night
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