Whorls of a flowering jargon juxtaposes itself with a negative nanny from outer space. The negative nanny winds an old grandfather clock sitting on an italian leather sofa. The baby she tends to looks like the byproduct of an intense night between Marie Curie and Himmler. Radioactive bonfires stream out of his eardrums. Suonds of screaming satans and bulbous eyes like an iguana- that’s him. The baby. Not an ‘it’ baby but a him baby. The nanny pours balsamic salad dressing in her concoction, a concussion that blows several Hiroshimas or reminds of future disgusting farts on the face of the Earth that will molest the very being of her face. Pimples on the face of the bride. The nanny shook the baby violently. The concoction would taste better she felt if she had some blood flowing through her veins. The baby never cries. This one has a goat’s beard already at eighteen months. Beady eyes too. Weathering intesnse heat produced by the concoction, the baby laughs. Laughs for Hiroshima and the nanny who tried to destroy the world. Poor orange rinds. They don’t know who wants to kill them. Blast them. They have no mercy. Amen.
Cataclysms of hope
June 26, 2009Hello world!
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