Smearing across the brow, trickling down the side of the face, not melted chocolate, but the expanse of blood out from the skin underneath. Another Easter road toll, and this bell gongs for 10 to the nation and make their way off the course and into the sidelines forevermore.
Ready at the teller, the bank salivates at the thought of a stolen cache of debit card data. There one day, gone the next, funds from your bank account. Maybe $50. Maybe $100. But enough to draw you closer to the zero balance. And they wait.
Again, before the due date arrives, the library shelves stock books no one will read and that will pass lonely, more under the dust, at the annual (but not annual enough) book sale. It is a purge more than anything, and the smell of fresh pages butting against the mould is only enough.
All Christmas is, the one with the Santa Claus dropping mysterious packages into homes and running off before coffee-stained guards have a chance to ask "Whose bag is this?", is a way for people to get together and suppress the minorities in a way that makes it feel inclusive.
Smiles are paralysed senses on the brink of laughter or outright breaking down into saltier and saltier marshes. The mouth, turning up at the face of all that is sad or rather mundane, is really looking to run and take care of itself. Away from your face. That liar in the mirror.
Starts and fits. No words for the leprotic when the bacteriotherapy fails to take. Bacteriotherapy, bacteriophage, it just more dissimulation: false promises and double bottoms.
Presents, like any other venereal diseases, are shared between people who broach a border of familiarity. The closer the bond, the grander the thought or price tag behind the gift. Socially, when not cared for, it's akin to dry drowning.
Foli[-age, +e à deux] creeps up in this place, Chicago School-driven. No other explanation for the slick suits that slid out the cloaca post-April spill. Shit stains tattooed on shit-stains, no amount of Canesten® will leave these souls clean.
People forget Mr. Lurkins ended up in the belly of a family of rats. Merry Christmas. Take that with you to where you rot, where eidolists sit and sip Japanese, bursars full to bursting.
Diluvian revelations never stop when it comes to the overreach of the NSA. Every week sheds a little more light on how far warrantless wiretapping and communication logging can help us make money, or absolve us of not breaking into a bank.
Cheeks spread apart are easier to wipe than cheeks squished together. This is why you sit and spread when wiping, if you don't have a bidet, instead of standing up and feeling the squat of turd remnants Rorschach against your buttocks.
Cookie narrated the fucking thing, and even he didn’t make the Price/ing/hoffer connection. Still, little messages in a hollow queen, twist of the wire, then heraus! heraus! Who knew? William Holden, that’s who. Not that Bill could say anything, face down as he was in Gloria Swanson’s pool.
For every scent of time travel, a little bit of radiation lingers in the air. Bend temporal reality enough and you'll have a group of hikers wander out into the snow to catch a sight of who knows what's going on that it's still a mystery 55 years later.