All On a Broach

The pig has its own symbolic right to display a grammar.
That was his argument, a pinch on the ass, common sex replicas.
The critters that cooked up a speech then couldn’t deliver the goods.
In every argument down here someone comes away a socket lighter.
Glue down more kids, the wings are out of balance.

There's no point in my considering this sentence, no fragment in a green
enameled bomb purse. I have a question of great unimportance, my life
is living in a rented room in Astoria. At last, the idea of marriage.
A Texaco horse from the enemy, circa one million CG.
Your argument for extinction; flashy, cruel, succinct. Hands?

The move to the new headquarters was wise. That winged thing
would have found a way in. And there goes your ballgame.
And there it goes again. Busy, ballgames, aren’t they?
Why is the one headed this way packing an RPG?
I will attempt to engage it in casual banter. “Excuse me, Red…!”

And there is where the story chose to end.

He has been a bullet with similar characteristics.
Speaking of the cavalry charging up Calvary, kindly escort these ladies
to the clinic until the lovelier ones arrive.
We have some elbow grease to spend.
And that’s how the whole darn love thing got started!
There along the mighty, muddy love barrel, barely of age yet
consumptive and raped with promise.
The song goes just like this.

I am a delicious dying crustacean.
I can fly into walls at ground level.
It takes a crew this big to clean the world or double your cancer back.
Think he could tell that he wouldn’t see Cuba again?
To hear him tell it there is no magical bull.
And still he insists on mowing from the underside.
Says things are never the same as you make them.

In this light, the magic hour I’ve mentioned in my epitaph, you can see
but only for flashes, and only into the nearer of the futures.
A full sized, conscious doll with great legs.
New paint for the Statue of Literally.
Baseball with guns.

Tell that fucker, Wiggins, if he don’t stop making that clacking
all goddamn night he gonna get his punk ass kicked good.

Unless Rueluas L’Aventure shows up with the pigs, look for me
on the center cross. It’s my beast to be, now, he fell off and left.
I think he went thisaway, looking for something. A hat, maybe.

I awoke in a room in front of a picture window.
The window was this screen.
I forgot to tell you I’m writing this on this screen.
Are you reading it on anything?
The light of the forest when insomnia reigns?
The dark when everything closes its eyes?

The story appeared to have finished some time ago.

The day, however, looked full of promise.