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  • williamjayarcher


Cluck, cluck went the chicken, ducking into the kitchen for a taste of some finger lickin’ tongues. Like the ones on those old work-boots sitting sadly by the door.

Poor old Warren, he doesn’t work with rabbits any more. He sat down in the living room one day after being let go, and started watching TV shows and growing old. When he’s gone, they’ll scrape the mould from his soul and throw his dusty carcass to the crows hopping about in the cold. Those tough little buggers don’t even have any boots to warm their orange feet in the snow. Whoah!

A bad-ass aspirin assassinated the hated prince of an asshole clan in a land where fuckers like that get buried in the back yards of retards like you and me. Now you can see how we so often get ourselves into deep water when our nosy neighbours overhear the laughter inspired by slaughter and call the coppers in their choppers to buzz over this way to investigate the ruckus.

Oh, how the tomatoes grow from the backbones of the Jones’ and the rest of those in the neighbourhood trying to keep up with them. Crimson fruits of morbid labor, sun-dried and saved for later. Come on, come on, gimme just a little pizza your heart!

Batting five hundred gets exhausting if you have to do it all in one day. I prefer to break them up into manageable chunks. I only bite off what I can reasonably chew in one session, so to squeak. Like a mouse.

Assimilate your similes like you gather metaphors, you whore! That comparison was prostituted by my pimp-hand, man. So strong.

Two crushed weasels, a half-torso of a man in his late fifties, and a sprig of Presley on the toilet. Add enough coke to drown a rhino, and shake like baby syndrome. Then get down with your bad self.

And there we have some very damning evidence of serious instability.

When presented with a case for suits, even the earth would quake like a half-baked snake named Bob, who, no matter what, was always Robbing.

Bon Voyage, old visage. That façade couldn’t face another day, and flew away with a masked man named Sam, from Yosemite, you see.

Picture it: Sicily, nineteen-thirty-two. A young girl walks down a narrow lane into the heart of her village. The sun beats down, baking the eyes out of some poor sap foolish enough to look at a pathetic gangster’s sister like any normal man looks at an attractive woman.

They nailed him to a wall and cut off his eyelids.

Now picture this: A worm with arms. Worm arms. And he’s got a vendetta against bully Guidos that fuck people up just because they can. Look out all you gangster punks, Worm-arms is on the loose. Lots more Sicilian girls gonna be going on dates now.

Harriet, sweet Harriet. She stole a mink coat from Macy’s for her cat, then murdered my heart with an axe-type body spray of a quality all its own.

Don’t dis the ugly sister, mister, just get off the roof before that ho' goes psycho on you bro.

You know, it goes to show that not all shows show us what we think we know. Especially those shows with coke-bottle glasses on the faces of dads about to get smashed and a kid with a head like an orange on a toothpick.

If it’s not Scottish, it must be from somewhere elfs. Like Iceland, or that ice-covered land named after a place that’s green. You know what I mean?

A jet-stream of consciousness rockets its way through a mach-ten mind that’s not mine. But I don’t mind. It’s fine.

Though the velocity of life in this city often leaves blisters on my brain, I feel no pain in the rain, cuz it cools the noodles of fools like me. It falls like the drool of a drunken god. Divine, inebriated glory, oozing through that phoney hole in the ozone that never was.

Hey dummies, why not spend the valueless currency of your meaningless lives chasing smoke through the night? Luciferian lemmings leaping loserly from the buffalo-jump. A dance macabre. Smart like stump.

Hump your hat, man! Beee bappaa dabbaa daa. I’m a hat man!

More like a scabby tweaker torturing rats in a burnt-out van.

In Germany, the word for tea is Tee, and they pronounce it just like you and me, but their sausage jokes are the wurst. El Avion is the way the Spanish avoid taking trains, but automobiles are the reals no matter what the deal.

Point "A" to poignant is a capital offence to an ant. Good thing the lil’ buggers are so small, or I might wonder if they sent one to take me out and he’s lurking in the hall. Or masturbating by the moving metal stairs at the mall. That escalated quickly, like Bruce.

Godammit Otto, you’re an alcoholic! Well, so is Rick, but that doesn’t seem to slow him down any. Otto, turn your fucking brain on! N.Z.Teezy weezy. Take one of them and you’ll wanna turn that grey matter down for sheezy.

Bleep, bleep! Squeak, squeak! Tires squeal like stool pigeons in the darkness of a rainy night as another speedy car full of slow thinkers flies off the road and into the drink. It sinks like lead into the sea, and what had been the setting of a beautiful evening only hours past is now transformed by tragedy into a new place of sadness for loved ones left behind.

Hopes and dreams, yesterdays, tomorrows, and what could have been descend into the depths of murky death, tightly gripping the wheel with intoxicated regret as the unavoidable reality of no future stares through the window and counts down the dwindling seconds. Better luck next time, kids. Thanks for comin’ out!

Wipe the brow for now. Take a breath and rest ‘til it’s time again to wrestle through another day of this match made by some poor Bog in his seventh heaven.

Goddesses have no time to trifle with the likes of Mikes, frightening sights in the night, devils, dealers, and doped-up ding-bats looking for fights under the late-night lights of shit-holes you need to be drunk to even pretend you like. Swing for the fences and hope for the best, Punchy, cuz, if you miss, it’s good night for you. Next time, keep your mouth shut and take the pill that isn’t blue.

Enough action for this round. Hop in the spaceship and rip through the cosmos for a while, until the distaste for these beings loses to loneliness once more. On the next run through the neighbourhood, we’ll stop in for a drink, a laugh, and a measure of dependable disappointment.

The more things change, the more we stay insane. Auf Wiedersehen, brain.


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