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Monthly Archives: April 2012

She’s blond. She’s svelte. Brilliant. Stunning. There isn’t anyone else like her. Survivor. Ass kicker. Genius. Goddess. She oils the machine. She spreads her legs. She swigs her tonic. The seas part. The crowds roar. No tomatoes are thrown. Kisses. Autographs. Record sales. Memoir aching with hubris. Girl with the most cake licking frosting from her monkey toes. Hype. Her own. She believes it. She does.

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June was refreshing. She didn’t spit when she spoke. Her eyes were not blazing bitch lights but tranquil pools of mossy green water. Travis was drowning slow. In ten years June would be dead because she would marry a mentally challenged spiritual dwarf who got nasty with a butcher knife when he walked in on June playing Monopoly with the youth minister. Now she was alive and Travis loved her because her eyes were not blazing bitch lights but tranquil pools of mossy green water and he was drowning, drowning slow.

Wikipedia: He is a third-person, singular personal pronoun in Modern English, as well as being a personal pronoun in Middle English.


So, she asked me, who dropped us off…little green men? No, we dropped ourselves off. We come from a much more advanced world than we live in right now, much more advanced. So there is hidden knowledge somewhere on earth explaining the real truth of our origin. Maybe this is the hidden knowledge of all of mankind that’s supposed to be under the Great Pyramids. So we are just aliens who came from five planets that were getting dangerously close to the black hole in the middle of a galaxy. They’ve been recycled by now. So when you see a UFO, it could be stopping by for water on the way to newer planets for colonization. Some yellow foam was left on top of the water after some UFOs were seen going into a harbor. They’re just emptying their toilets. The foam is chemicals and feces and pee broken down from the chemicals. They’re just emptying out their crap and replenishing their water supply.

 

 

Paul Pellerin


This is my dance. Welcome to it. Drink some punch, comment on the decorations, stick around until you hear a song you can sweat to in your lurking glower. There are no chaperones. The usual labels do not stick. This isn’t junior high school. The popular kids no longer own the cafeteria. Club membership is no kind of currency. This is my dance, not your goddamn high school reunion. I cannot hear your bragging bellow. You’ve got some ground to stand on? Stand on it. This is not your ground. This is my hallowed piece of blue sky.


Please do not call me again. I’ve been eaten by a tiger. I’m pretty much gone. You cannot threaten a tornado. Hey, tornado. I’m going to kill your destructive ass. That makes sense, yes, as much sense as Jesus on Sunday and hatred every other day of the week. Hate. Stew. Rage. Bang pots and pans. Throw knives at phantoms. Examine yourself. You might need to do some work. I’ve done all the work I need to do. I am God’s favorite piece of candy. God has sucked all the sugar out. I am not sweet. I am not the one to punish. No belt can reach me now.


He liked her pictures and phone voice she liked his scary stories and throaty chuckle he liked she liked they liked so they met at Johnny’s Pizza and talked and laughed more than they ate and then his favorite sports bar and then beer and more beer and the tease so delicious the hot whisper in his ear no panties underneath that risky black dress and then the drive to the slutty side of town and the neon’s slick welcome and the room with a television never turned on and kissing and kissing and sucking and biting the tingle the throb the moaning sigh the heady dazzle and naked finally and his inside hers and her on him the delicious slide no need for prayer or lubrication and this the wait its immeasurable worth oh fuck oh god oh yes the release the shoot the thick white load deep into that sucking space still pulsing with quiver with accept with yes.


Rats chewed lentils and marshmallows in the kitchen, which featured a dirty white and piss yellow color scheme. A fly flew around the dining room, teased by the stagnant scent of yesterday’s pork roast and fried zucchini. Donnie was getting his dick sucked in the shower by some chick with papaya scented hair and a tribal art tramp stamp. Fred was passed out in a puddle of vomit, probably his, in the dark den while a popular Poison song leaked from the speakers. Dammit, the dachshund, fretted up and down the hallway whimpering for attention he would not receive for another couple of hours. The pineapple clock in Honey’s room ticked ticked ticked. Honey was dead in her closet from allergy pills and vodka. She didn’t leave a note, just a shopping list. Sad blue scrawl on expensive beige paper.

douche
diet soda (not Pepsi or Sunkist!)
razors
celery (the kind that’s cut up)
extra crunchy peanut butter
sea monkeys