"Hello, Captain" said the queen leech as she impatiently went from lips to lungs...
December 30, 2003, 02:12

{dawn}
a rotten stench at The Kaleidoscope System subway.
My time with the S.S. was at an end and [TELEPHONE WIRE:] pheramone aid were held.

I’ll take the whole she-bang, ma’m…

{midday}
A.V.: “Dr. Doctor can you knit me a message?
One of decline of eyebrows, one for molar day countdown?
I’ve seen your red and black doors and I’m so anxious to attend them!”

Dr. Doctor: “Why, sure, the message of the molars rings clear as a bell.
On the 14th of your birthweek, you shall be molar free! Long live Vienna!”

Patients, fetch my slippers.

{sundown}
suddenly skunk reinke grew an alligator beard that hocked mucus and sailor slang.
“the last of the vicious cordials” thought I, and promptly spilled sulfur perfume.
We jaunted and jolted our bright eyes and traded our fingers for fishing line and paid several tempresses to lead us through to the electric colloseum trade.

There would be fighting in the streets, there would be lunches.
There would be controllers and liters. 
Yet there was no time to be wasted.


{dusk}
Deep in the festering heart of the Middle blank valley, laid the Moth Ball.
There was wine to be had from unwashed old cups,
where puerto rican baby vomit in houndstooth overcoat would be old news.
We were on no mission here, just nocturnal fashion.
The Skunk, not finding any treasure hidden in the wigs at the Moth Ball, decided to take out a baseball bat and start downsizing.
I’m sure no one minded, I know I didn’t; this was all going on the duchesses tab.

Fine furs led to head lice and horrors of television static.
So we fled the scene carrying only tre sheik.

SKUNK: “to the Machete Café!”
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There would be back alley gun fights.
There would be barters with max and Tuesday for their very lives.
There would also be cherry carbonates, spiced meat and joys to be had.
But the night was fading and not even I could console it’s bleeding heart.

{twilight}
There was nothing left for a vagrant in the salt flats;
the persistent hum of widowing winds reminded the loathing of what was to come.
shadows from the nearby windmill graced a lone, mocking silhouette
bubbles frothed from the last of the rotting stars,
accompanied by the distant exhaust of a leering zeppelin 
that was now heading north towards a sea of octopus ink and virgin snow…

[END VIENNAGRAM:]