Lion Milk War

Wait, take me with you. Please, wait, take me with you. A few capsules too many. Lingering lions, snickering just around the corner. Fireflies forests and late-June jubilee. Flashlights for rent: five dollars. Twiddling a semi-burnt-out cigarette between your fingertips. Another felinous evening. Reexamining velocity in a vacuum. Eighty-eight eight balls, all to my solitary self. A triad of timid, tired, tiny tabbycats curling up next to momma after a long day of play. I just cannot get enough of inhaling smog, I’ve even written it into my daily planner.

Choking up laughing, or crying; it’s cyclical, really. Three and a half jars of jazz jelly. A lonesome midnight beverage has become routine. Numerous nickel nanites marching along a moonlit riverside. Geiger geysers. I’ve stopped locking my gunsafe. Frequent indigo endeavors. Lemon liquor and festival flicker, bustling and buzzing. We are no longer sure what induces what. Dismal, dreary and down damsels. Afraid of the limelight; tuck yourself into a small box, and stop talking.

They’re bioengineering a new sub-type of cancer, it’s about time, really. Many modern modems squeaking and whirring; it’s all too much, would you just shut up, please? Plasticine porch pigeons pretending to be pecking poundfruit scraps. Hand-crank self-shockers and peddle-powered executioners. Three hundred thirty-seven painstakingly hand-painted piggy banks suspended from the ceiling. John called, said he wants Richards tech. Oklahoma left entirely devastated following cataclysmic thunderstorms; more to come. You’re on thin ice now.

Escaping into the thick morning’s mist, you can finally be free; like a beautiful bird. Increasingly frequent maniacal meltdowns. Quail fish quilt sales. Subject to spontaneous sublimation. Indonesian idiographic ideograms and pheasant feather felt fans. New age contemporary telephones that do the talking for you; I’ve never felt so connected. Luscious botanical drapery; and, hello there little gup. A night of rusty knives. The flowers have never been so beautiful. You’ve been too happy. It’s time to cut your breaks and put the pedal to the metal.

Twenty-four, twenty-four. Silver fox fur. A blackened, black-end bottom lip. Acoustic caustics acclimate, agitate. No need to run. Modern houses with modern locks; and modern lock-pickers. A sheet of cara cara orange stickers. They chewed your favorite pen, do something about that. Rough them up. Shooting down hang gliders with anti-air artillery. Enough money to go around, but I don’t want to share. Showering your special someone in their own blood. Cuffed to the wall; keep kicking your feet, I don’t care. Squawking and squeaking, the insuppressible utter annoyance of the mouse they’ve taped to your back. 

Julie, please have this done by Friday. Julie, please rinse the coffee pot. Hostile houseplant. Chattering with the cheetahs–take notes please. Nevada’s gone mad, have you seen the news? Injecting yourself with every last needle you can find: the true way to live prosperously. Take what’s yours, it’s about time; haven’t you had enough? You can bash your head against all the rocks you’d like, but I’ve found boulders to be more effective. Alternatively, tie yourself to an old tree and set it on fire. Come back a beautiful phoenix. You could be so beautiful.

The princess is picked apart rather ravenously; there is no heir to the throne. Three months of flight academy. The world now runs on a unified economy of catseye marbles. Locus lotuses. Ten-volt tenable tent poles and a blue traffic cone. The George array is running low on cyan ink; a replacement order has been confirmed. Two-factor authentication code: 85S0W; time is running out. The idea is to get you into a FOMO chokehold. Salisbury steak dinners and your daily medication. Ever since I’ve taken an generic-brand precision utility knife and removed the last three days from each month in my calendar (spare February), all has been tranquil and bliss.

The Californian coronary Calypso; toss. Placated plecos, in the limelight. Aubergine shadow and aubergine gloss, new shoes, a new skirt. Newsprint sandwich wrapping, homemade potato chips, and those tasseled toothpicks. A lone, not-alone crow flying overhead. The daily intake of smog amongst all else, in the winter season. The first step into a store you’ve never entered before; a sickening, queasy feeling. Model trains and model planes, right-aligned text on street shop signs. An itch, inside. Your entire life up until this point has been a mere prologue for this moment: at long last, your opportunity to have a turn replacing the bulbs in an firelift–without a harness. Don’t bungle it, you cunt.

A cluster of orchestral harps, a heap. Gallowing waves of artifice dust are now inbound. A chain-link lynx chain, no specific region; no specific region required. Two quarters and a penny–worth irrelevant. The lunar year of the horse, every year. Described in two colors: perhaps coffee. An relaxing game of billiards with a curious colocolo. The everlooping melody of a voice you thought you’d forgotten, no more eye contact, please. The ethereal fibers of being alternating between a gilded silk and an earthly ombré. Lustrous windows that cloud when you’re around, have you tried not being a worthless sad-sack? Outstretched hands towards the clouds in the field of what once was. In a little while, they’ll be gone.

Rhinestone rivers of intertwining interconnections between those who’ve never met. The business that John wishes he would have started when he had the chance, you can only pray you will not become as helpless as he has. The echoing ripple of the wrongful. A lone bear dances in the wintery woods. The consequences of flipping a coin one too many times. A long list of the years you’ve lost. Long-expired backstage passes, world’s least-reflective mirror, and a small bowl of chocolate candied whatevers. Emergency landing gear that pops at the sound of your keys jing-jingalinging. If you weren’t such a dullard, that’d be you on the television.

Wind-up weather balloons leaking your secrets most-grandeur. The natural although artificial concept of a glowing globule around a glowing globule, the mist sure helps. A jackstone jaguar liming stone. Limestone. Lime stone. Limes tone. Rearranging the alphabet to be more efficient–you, or the alphabet? Ink pad blot burst birds, on the old cellar scratchpad. Total radial transparency–or, dependency. Near-holographic halo hair; the face of an angel. Intentional indecipherability, that is, not to say it lacks in substance: a jigsaw benefits from a missing piece. Gawping at the pretty colors while new-age nimrods needlessly argue the name of such. The insuppressible urge to illustrate the aforementioned.

You’re disgusting, smeared by what you sought to seduce, oafish. Satin silk sweet tea on the patio to cleanse oneself of the evening practice. Lie in sweet summer wheatgrass: an oh-so-rude intruding recollection. A momentary guild guise: a lapse in judgement, catacomb corruption. Overwhelming clementine caustics. Oregonian church organ organs. An altruistic abstraction to the tasteless. David, field journal: Canadian bobcat. David, field-journal: Canadian lynx.