dear frank, it's been a day without teeth. a furnace of broken bottles scraping the sky-night fly-sky-light. here your body fly-bright is crowned Louisiana, by Lucy's warchest of soldiery eggs and flotsam mortgaged barnacle days that undulate lost river sperm key enchantment by indelible sink rainbows (did you like that?) yes, flow they squelch my face into a phanton of lice, where liveried neptune baths grassly-doormat in your weasel-meadow kinetics, woof woof and starlight

beneath fishy pylons of greek turnips question patricia's friend about your enormous shadow. but enough about me. i am the only gay eskimo in my tribe. i get hard when i just glance at the north pole. i'm the only eskimo in my tribe serving a life-sentence handcuffed to Malcolm X. i opened the tent-flap and everyone was gone. speaking of your last girlfriend, her passport's a fine example of early cubism. she's seen more countries than i've seen cunts, and i hope she took an umbrella. because it rains in lots of them. i'd rather be a silver fish scuttling along a silent sea, that's poetry frank

i should be shirking, that's where the bunny is, it's all underbound, but everyone's too busy banking to look for a shovel. let's go back to the spoon, all these stars going the song stray are shaking me curvous. but where gives your portly plunder, impervious, they say the yes-men of metal doors are wordking their cemetary posts after an office-pantry raid, of systematic loud burning. oh what's the moist frankly, let's burp on the flagons. she's malice in blunderland. she's mad as a hottie



off with her bed! off with her bed! and the bottlefield we spew up in is giant mug with late flowers of putrid french-fries. satisfy your last damsoned jam in distress, says suzie toast the alsation-robber. pour thing on an oil slick when you drive-by. and buy quietly, for she likes to give alms to cripples. dave's moustache stretches coast to coast. and he's got the photographs. so quest-floor for queen fortuna's holy riverboat, and inquire bullet-proof mast of pidgeon droppings. plus past secret fins with the unmailman. i suspect usually, despite your questioning of avarice in obscure dialects of the riviera. in my opinion a boat and drawbird is the final wrong solution. it's bucking a cheese sandwich which hurts but no onion to weep off.

so now behold the mother-slayer, 100% wool vestibule, chickenshit to the stars, plantain-borrower, a wet tissue on legs, his borrowed norsemen have inverted him, and he is bowed vinegar when his rug has cleaned a pretender, a sure blender for your blood frank. NPR, never pays rent. most pert, graduate voted most likely to succeed in advertising. amy said it was like flirting with a blood-bank. well there's no such thing as a flea hunch. but there could be a bicycle made of ice-cream. and that's why we gotta pot our elves. we don't queen bee long here, and everyone grows it. say hi to the fish, the cardboard hoax, the wax replica of father, and the wooden horse you used to fuck me on. it was a log spine in flow, butter still renders it, solid, nubile, a regular chaplin of chapped hips, a 100% iron-mast egg-cup. yes, you heard it burst near, frank -- the chip has finally failed, and we're planting kids!!

yours, Ren and Stimpy (toothplayers to the cards)

ps. Say hi to Britney Bugaroo. Tell Samantha, the Puke of Edinburgh, a Man called O, George Carlin the Miner, my favorite fridge in Minnesota, a box of red paper-clips, and even that dungeon where we used to play hunger and maggots, that it's time to look after their own elves now

I can no longer be beached by calling sex for sex, sex for three. tutu heaven gone
Beep beep beep

Thankyou, I've been a wonderful ordinance







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a flirt in the band is worth two in the audience



i don't want to appear cool, but you made your head and now you have two lice in it

what did one tampon say to the other tampon?

nothing. they were both stuck up bitches

yeah, i should be shirking, that's where the bunny is

sometimes it's chess not flair

x

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