Is that it? Not a confused let down or a withering away, but a what the fuck yellow cloud of urine vapor hurrying overhead with nothing but blue skies to the horizon, drawing across the prairie its smell of excruciating angst (But watch it. Don’t slip in the actual puddle of piss on the kitchen floor, just pulverize your testicles with that meat tenderizing mallet hanging on the hook to the tune of frayed curtains rustling, glimpsing, through imperfections, those same blue skies and bright sunny beach front days which chime like bells of the charred cathedral, and drop, one after another, turd like, into the bowl, splashing your bottom, while SPF 500 is slathered on mysteriously by unseen agents, all insisting you nip down to the coffee HAUSE and languish, cradling your oversized cup gingerly between two veiny hands, skin torn like paper, across from you sitting a fish eyed tilted stop sign, barista calling out:
"Mocha Frappuccino Java Medley with Whipped Cream?"
No answer, so you leave, following the Overpowering inclination for a DOLLAR SLICE,
Ineffectually groping for a napkin to mop
The orange grease, at the last second
Before it spills
Onto your pants.) Is that it? Fucking urn.
Dirge.
