Pink, slimy, privileged, innocent, swaddled, smiling, accommodating, polished, pinstriped, bulbous, porous, plump dough. Cooing, deflating, shedding, folding, pulsating, ubiquitous, teeth-baring biscuit piles LibraryofBabel

Tope, polite, lanky, sweating, mild-mannered, sedentary, flopping, moist, hunchbacked refrigerator paintings

Ground meat putty with woolen pepto bismol eyes and gravy veins

A schmekel or a popta or a blootz, a stinking old hat, stuffed with leaves and soaked in an arbitrary vinegar whose story was forgotten generations ago

Neat lines painted on walls that lead me up carpeted staircases

A rotund grimace with yellowing plastic pillars and a section for poetry

Cracked ivory and cigar smoke and a smell you can't quite place, yet

Where things unsaid outnumber the wooden carved pieces of furniture

Leather no one cares about. Discarded tickets. Those little dots just beneath the surface that appear when pressure is applied. Rotting mayonaise nodes and 1-star blockbuster titles.

Herps. Derps. Unflavored yogurt. Bloated ridged eyelet endeavors handed out by the Victorias and maybe even the Sarahs and often the Matthews

Unexposed, daily, fleece-wrapped ceramic potential

Detached from absolutely everything, God himself, isolated monad, staring at trees through sliding glass windows, like the fate of mankind is leaning on a granite countertop waiting for a fairy tale to stop cooking in the microwave

A slot for this and a slot for that, and a slot for arizona and a slot for cashmere, a slot for triscuits and a slot for feist, a slot for history and a slot for ugly things

There is jungle love waiting to happen, you blubbering, transparent sheet of mathematics

Your black turtleneck was prophesized by Tibetan tulkus, and your Tuesday afternoons are sifted from the top layer, left to age for months, and sold to elephant poobahs for seven and ninety-nine a handful while the low frequencies are left to dither

There is a tower of plastic feeding on your hair, converting your frayed strands to radioactive musack signals that mimic the lamentations of teenage boys

Ditch that tile for the charcoal party in the front lawn, K

Ditch it before the red yarn in your socks catches fire, and you end up selling your sack of seeds to no one in particular, like his father before him, and maybe I won't have to wake up from the same nightmare every morning

Submitted January 10, 2015 at 02:48AM by AnimusHerb240 http://ift.tt/14BqXQY LibraryofBabel