Lion Milk War

Johnny Locket caught another pink-feathered, salmon-striped pickpocketeer. Large load: bat-powder barrels and overturned onion dollaps. Hey, I was looking for those, you filthy little thief. Starstrikingly stippled salty sea ships filled with dodder fodder. A sad little shantytown saloon. Beware: arid air. A forgotten instruction pamphlet on how to debarnacalize, evidently so. Putrid boredom lingering like little bunker bristles. The leftovers of last week’s conversation are no less dwindling than the thought of it. An empty bookcase dreading the thought of–never mind. Forty-four degrees, unreliable precipitatories. Vestibules closing in on forty-four furlongs. An early morning’s breakfast. Great Britain’s impending participle problem–another telephone box, without a telephone. He asks to borrow some change; but dammit, that’s your money. An aggravating whistle, like a toothache.

State-funded orange juice distribution, estimated delivery: you are just four stops away. Cobbling with self-produced fruitfly leather. Blistering welts and pompous whittle wire. An ornamental oar: are you remembering what this means? The bust of a beautiful lass punched out of frozen rainwater. A familiarity amidst repetitiveness. A vessel of pure asininity: does it feel like looking into a mirror? Congratulations, you are a candidate for unconsensual rotation, please hold.

Cardinal catfish cathedrals with gold-gilded poppies and yellow belly guppies. Torn turncoat ties and yelping yup yup yuppies. Silkscreen galloping guildsteeds. Twister brick knots and automated unpluggers. A box of your finest. Jerry pylons spew powder poised particles. Styrofoaming at the mouth, like a pitiful little rabid. Carnauba leaf wax shoeshine spitfire, and a stonefish surfboard. Sore sorters and pickled pincers reorganize the jolly Johnny cubicles. Beating the ad actors to the pulp, enough of that. Three-legged Moundcats toy with the tiny tropical trackballs. Stupid dust in their special eyelashes, so stupid.

Lackluster geometrics and well-done whisky whiskers plague today’s modern newspapers. Infographic: a spool of steel-plated somethings or others. Did you? Heliogram bird whistles: flowers, wildcats, and whatevers. A typographical carbon monoxide leak and at the same time, a boiled oil spill. And microfluidic peaultrix whirlers.

I was talking to Copernicus the other day. Alright? Why are you telling me this? I don’t care, I just don’t care. We built a new stone bridge, blue and John blue and made of stone and hope. You can fish off of it, but I’ll cut your line. Don’t fish off of my bridge, you sleazy bastard. Milk melters and silver coins, and the pouch made of sweet summer silk. And pink and beautiful and silky smooth like the OK disco-ball that reflects that ugly grin and reflects something else too. An embrace and a wink of the eye or the eyes and don’t look away, don’t you dare. And the smell of orchids, or grass? I wish it wasn’t. And a beautiful dress tailored to you. And you dance, dance, dance.

I’d buy you a drink but I’ve spent all of my money on briefcases. And a pocket watch with an engraving of the mayor’s face. I tore the hands off the face of the watch, I don’t really care. I’m going to kiss you. Just kidding, don’t tell me what to do. I’m a Solemn Steve, and I do as I please. Hello, hello there, Johnny Sleeve. See you later, Oleana. Just kidding?