The shopping cart was crumbly and sandy,
your ill-footed memory of rusty skies
impaled on a desert isle.
You move it through a lane of veichles
vouching for giraffes
to wank and yell
at the top of their post-op lungs.
It's selling
as fast as a stack of grenades,
as you rapidly guess the numbers
just to free yourself of some soup-stare,
now you're stammering hard in the ground,
just wanting to go home and shank
steaks to the bone, and cauliflower
and broccolli,
just to get this damn thing over with
It's quarter past 2 and your heart's beating
soft-loud, plundering empty blood vessels
into giving up their space
to more important stuff.
You do this whole process to the refridgerator,
which by now smells of acrid sulfur and raw sirloin,
enough to make a rabbit go mad.
You put a quarter pound lump of rabbit meat in the freezer,
right beside an ice cream sitting pretty
with it's twirling snowcone,
and just as the door closes,
a speck of blood
brushes past the cool dewy white
of the ice cream
and leaves behind a lipstick smear.
And you don't see it because
you're smiling at the vegetables.

Tomato, celery, coriander,
parsley, tobacco-shrout, cucumber,
onion, ginger, cassava, radish,
horseradish, arugula, wasabi,
zucchini, potato, and tomahtoe.

They are smiling back at yo.
You give them a heavy shove,
and a primordial chant,
until they fit like tetris bricks
inside the cramped quarters
of the fridge.
Your work here is but done,
because there needs to be some explaining,
and rapid-fire alarming,
and put-out dyschopic marauding,
just to figure out tails from anuses
of an amateur cookbook for dummies,
written by dummies
with a picture of a disgruntled chef in the cover
who looks like a pig being slaughtered.

You turn off the flame and leave the whole damn thing
to boil over.
"I've had enough of this already",
the equivalent
of wiping your ass on the countertop.

"Maybe i'll go have some ice cream instead".
Quote by icaneatcatfood
On second thought, **** tuning forks. You best be carrying around a grand piano that was tuned by an Italian
Last edited by Laces Out Danny at Aug 1, 2009,
oh, but it's not a song.
Quote by icaneatcatfood
On second thought, **** tuning forks. You best be carrying around a grand piano that was tuned by an Italian
Sounds a lot like my early adventures in the kitchen.. anywho I like the train of thought feel of it.. sounds like you were frustrated when writing it. Emotions come across nicely, just try not to wipe your ass on the countertop again... nobody wins there.
This was an interesting idea, for sure, but I get the impression that you either didn't have spellcheck or were to drunk to care when you wrote this. Still, you have an impressive vocabulary for someone if they were drunk. Parts seem slightly wordy, but still interest me enough to continue. Maybe reading too much of Max Bemis has made me appreciate that.

Looking back over it, I'd say that the first half is good, but starting from the part about being too busy smiling at vegetables, it gets great.

C4C on moose(s) if you dare, it's doubly weird and half as elegant.
Last edited by punkforlife93 at Aug 3, 2009,