Does nobody blog any longer? Is it wrong to
take pistol shots in anger? (At the dangling
participles just now participating, at least,
) I smell something, honey, like minced meat
oats suit the money men adventuring like
day-glo boybands in bondage wear
:::::trying on their delicate torture gear
"How do I torture you?" One eager stag
asks another. "Here, I think you twist this
sprocket... Oh yes, that's it," he trails off,
murmuring incantations
of slain vegetables like broccoli who hold
no malice towards those who eat legumes.
(Think beans.) And boyband toilets where
the business gets down, and the million drab,
indrawn, loathsome places where ordinary
things happen to extraordinary people, but
nobody listens.
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