Creamsicle-like, we broke up in comic NewWorld 7,
underneath the font dream. Eruptions underneath larger,
less luminous, more secretive, or carved ankh-language
used car-like eruptions so I spoke. Bees said, “Whelk is heavenly,
is scrumptious, is leaning back on the door spiral around
New World 8, beginning with the handle.” Yo dream pounds
away all the Rosetta Stone flour we can muster. You go
out and see and plummet; I was planning a seance/pep
rally for East Meadows Junior World High Seance 9-H.
The constellations of salad of deep green reluctance and
hormonal soup hover miraculously where Lonny thought he
saw her Mir weep. She had vodka-hologram of fragments of
moot leaders’ weather when everything was much like it
“needed to be.” Dr. Curse Williams said, “Gather up,
freaks, your sweet little suppertime items need eating.”
