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Archive for December 29th, 2010

Alley Murders. . .

By Tyson Bley

Geraniums partake of the pianist’s flesh, so much they love the little brat. I remember being jealous, hearing it. I’m such a, such a jealous person, you know? It continues to this day, and the cords are noisome. My face is ham. I’m transplanting the ham grimace. Shuffling out of the auditorium, I set out to buy a Rammstein stuffed animal, just to feel better. I stop, because I have to stop, and admire the traffic lights surrounding the sand castles. There’s a lot more to life than this – there’s so much, so much to admire. There’s the shape-retaining function of duct-taped dream messages. And 3D specs are only $2, through which you can see what pests on coke really look like: a cauliflower conglomeration of Wagner. Jaba de Hut was his lover, although he’s nowhere in the picture now.

Back at the apartment my spaced-out girlfriend coos over her new shotgun license. ‘This baby is laced with a pathogen,’ she says. ‘Oscar De La Renta toilet water!’ It smells OK. And I really like it when Sissy boasts this way. It gives her voice a batrachian aspect. Sissy is currently married to the smallpox Juke, whose drum machines – electronic polyps with bloody, rhythmically popping souls – perform best under golden showers, and I become so, so jealous even though no one’s playing them and the sounds are merely points of the compass that lead to the institution’s ends.

I have been told that I will die in a drive-by shooting. That’s OK, but untrue, as Sissy demonstrates by folding the license into a paper shotgun reeking of oldman perfume and aiming it at my chin, squinting. I’ve always wanted to be stupendous; as in, I always wanted to be stupidly hard to shoot with a BB gun. And today I want to feel the infinity-coroner’s extension. It’s not an infinitely long dick. Nothing like that. It’s a tiger. Prodding me. I will be buried in a dinosaur encrusted costume; the only thing inapposite will be my decomposition, which will consist of prairies of shirt hair. That is how, hovering in a corona of dead, pube-shaped alleys, each a possible destination curtailed by boredom or distraction, I will free my murders.

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