4.
And so it was, a dorble sorting, that I came to imulate the esk. It was many lube holed on such occasions, and most drabulous in it’s means. Weevil girls floating round me, espulous beans on umulence amount. Jabbernoired nude ramblings, in a Tudor Sedan.
The good Dr was dragging me through the doors of a strange hallucination, verblings as we earned.
My icicles lit surprise as they lay eggs upon the vision towut moi.
“Mine Goethe, it’s inhumane” I sprayed with wettery slickle as I watched the wriggling Jesus on the crucifix, whining noisily and sweatily, and stinkling hot breath from even here from me. “Where did you get it?”
“It’s mine,” pronounced the goods Dr profoundly, straightening the ribbed silk noose around his neckle as he did so, and qwouching, before continuing, “I have created a strain of the dead Jesus, using DNA from a True Cross in Firenze that I stole as a chile.”
“Stole as a chile?”
“Si, wigged as a bambino, nicked as a kidicle, robbed as a ratrug.”
“Friggen weird thing to do as a kid in’t?”
“Si, but I was a weird kiddicle, dig?”
“Sure, dig” I finished, but the brain borbbled, “not with this circus clone in mind mind you no yes?”
“Yes no, I frigged it from the beginning. It was always my aimacle. It was the bug in my head, the see in the eye of my spud. What can I say – I was born genius.”
“My god, “ I said, “I’m sweating, it must be the humility.”
He didn’t frig the jock, and gave me a sterly look. But how, I wondered, did this do with me? What was my porpoise in this Styrofoam? Where was I why was here need me?
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment