stagnanTVowels

fig.34.87) the damned, waiting for slack The boxes are hastily described with a few hashed markes and a beavers stout trunk emerges. There's a clipped rattle as brushes are dropped into the thin red ceramic cup. The perfect handle is long since broken. There's a lily sitting in the window beside her as the drawer continues drawing. Some grey is added and then the weight of the page shifts. I've known her for a lifetime it seems, she's been my foil. I tell her that I'll be back again soon and Katt nods dismissively.  "Grabbers, not pussy grabbers but the normal kinder kind. The slow moving refugee kind," the old man shifts inside of his long dark cloak. He seems to be a clown but he has a magisterial air. Dyspeptic and out of sorts like an older child with special needs. I should go so far as describing him thusly, he's an august houseplant that's both fat and ignoble of character. His mendicancy, despite his appearance is consumptive unto to

fig.09) right up front among the other sad and cheap items I have a marvelous first paragraph already written, it's like gold! The only thing it needs is something that lingers. Something that sounds like a bridge, something compelling that will pull you in. At first it will start with, yes! Yes, the lights won't turn off when I'm in here all alone with the plastic housewares. Yes, there's panic in the stockboys heart. But I know where his liver is. I have eaten his lunch before. I have crawled between all of their small lockers in the hallway behind the timeclock. Yes, I've been wandering the store again naked. I've pulled down all the towels and moved the little bars of soap. I have sat here at the counter and waited my turn. I've taken a number and called out your name until I've become hoarse and afraid. Yes, I've been seen in the aisles. I've shouted at the merchandise and leant my ear to the confused. I've been wicked, this I have

fig.298.08) The bitch of my sleep, there ain't no one here with me. I wake in my limitless bed. Feeling thin and aggrieved, my punchy thoughts aswim in my eyes. A genius of tides is rolling on from my witless boots now hung above the board of the floor's long walk. "Yes, I'm chaff," speaking to the clown on my right. She's magnificent, so I name her nightingale and everything gets a little better. "Just hum and get through the book as quick as you can. Nothing else matters until the end. The very last frame of it, the one before you finally fall asleep, that's what you need. So hurry up." Waking up again and I roll over. "I'll dine on the wine of today until it's fine as hell," I boast. "I might be a banquet of the bitter tidings, served up with the grim water of a wet woodland far to the north of these hills. I might as well be a survivor of threats that have gone unanswered in that sprawl. But I'm still opus, o

fig.72.89) the skin of my agent is erotic to me Wise is always wisest, even says the fool. Once you've set your fire brightly, laughter is to heaven what mirth is worth to you.  We found you below the steps. You were right beside the buffalo exhibit and your hair was radiant. You smelled just like a child and there was something special in your eye. We found you sleeping lightly on the only blanket you'd ever known. We gathered you up, your blanket and all. Then we took you home and bathed you in our sink. We sang songs to you until you grew tired and more full of sleep than we had ever seen inside of anyone. Off to bed with you, and so it was that away you went. The winsome chatter of dreaming nearly filled your ruddy cheeks. While your eye-bones were already dim, sitting on top of their deep sea of sleep. Goodbye is what we said to you, closing the door quietly behind us. "Tomorrow will do nicely, that's when we shall gorge upon its pitiful youngling flesh,&