Prehistory waits in the dank breakroom of future days. I eat, but creamsicles don’t sustain their heavy congealment. They make little halos of melting orange. Glooped, primordial gaze tells us, “Crack the egg of bodily National Grid.” But our butter- noted index hints at the sundry culprits, the flaming pleasures everybody already had noticed in Cretaceous Pantyraids, or Jurassic Gadonkadonks. Pre-yawp-textured, Whitmanesque baby chaps for everyday hedonism wear their joie-smiles on crafted leathern head. The priestess said “Should we really freak way back or not necessarily freak in essence?” Only She could transcribe the Oral-beast sacraments. Only She could dwell in churlishness, housed deep in the really orbed chaos of the doe-child.
