haiku / rhyme / letter from nonsensus

I sit on canines
because they are fur-niture
made from good, strong bark


Tassel tits, Tassel tits, bit our fingers with her clits. Freaked us out, we had the shits, hid and failed from manic blitz. Guts in loop, she flashed her boob, flung her purple, cunt juice soup. Acid burning flesh in goop. Stamping foreheads with her tongue, marked our lives with poisoned cum. No more fleeing, no more hope, monster woman haunts the globe. We ran and ran but caught in bra; last words, “we are majulah!”


Dear Baron Le Croix.

Grandfather has started eating cockroaches again. With chopsticks. I discovered this on the night he let his wild, maniac chickens out of their kettles to waddle in bath tubs built into his attic: my bedroom.

The clucking and cackling woke me from my comfortable coffin.

After carefully avoiding the rolling eggs (freshly squeezed out) on persian carpets, I found him in his wardrobe, dressed like a hipster, crunching the protein based creatures with relish. They were dipped in wasabi.

“Grandpa….grandma won’t be happy with your diet.”

He adjusted his mighty mouse bip. “Screw her! I bet she’s still giving Elvis an enema on youtube! And I was hungry!”

It started raining in the hall. Thunder and brimstone and fat, fried frogs.

By the time I returned to the attic, to get an umbrella from Rhianna, and to pull out the deflated sex dolls to keep grandpa company in his wardrobe, the eggs had hatched. Persian carpets are suitable for such eggs. It encourages disorderly gene mutation. Instead of cute, little yellow chicks (A.K.A. small, Chinese schoolgirls) the crocodiles had gone full blown vogue. They looked nothing like their Hainanese pork chop counterparts. They were reciting gutenberg press repair manuals and singing long forgotten epic rock operas from India. Camera flash bulbs were going off. Rodents were secretly masturbating to the mystical verses. The Ganja God, Shiva was like, “what the fuck man?”

I couldn’t find the sex dolls.
I told Rhianna to stop seducing me, untie herself and put on some clothes. “If my ex-wife shows up, catching us like this, she might come in like a wrecking ball. Now shoo!” Madonna and child smiled down at me.

On the way down snakes and bladders, the archangels of the cockroaches manifested in my cerebral cortex. In their lacy negligees. They were slowly shaking their heads at me (dishonorable grandson), entering cipher into their ipads, snapping their fingers to unheard songs. This can’t be good. The last time they did that, my Godzilla farm got raided by the Power Puff Pansies. I went to warn grandpa.

He had turned into Kafka.

“Bring me to my castle!” he said. I reminded him he had sold it to Elvis. “No wonder grandma wants to fornicate with that pelvis! She actually gets wet thinking of moats and chandeliers and torture chambers!, which I built by myself, finger-by-finger mind you! I think she still wants me!” He was full of glee. “Bring me the batmobil!”

Only the trishaw was available.

So obviously, it took sometime to reach The Garden Of Eden. Which is actually a Las Vegas motel attached to a 24 hour church. We found grandma and Elvis there, trading UNO cards.

“Sweetheart…” grandpa started, adjusting his dog collar (he had nothing else on) “sweetheart… I just had the best crispy cockroaches…I’m so hotblooded right now, dreaming of sex in our old fireplace…remember that place? where we

“Gautama!” grandma interrupted, “it was you who killed our babies you bastard! Elvis and I have been trying for centuries for cockroaches, and just when I was ready to start raising them as fine young cannibals, you stole them from us! You dispicable camel toe faced bowel organ!”

“whaa…no..no sweethea

Elvis emptied his bladder into grandpa….

And so, dear Baron,

This is why I’m writing to you. I need you to find grandma and Elvis. They unfortunately escaped in a rubber dinghy. I could’ve stopped them, but I was too distraught, weeping over grandpa and trying to control my sexual urges because I have a golden shower fetish. I want them found. Electrocuted on sight and buried in the fields of Disneyland. Alive. face down. In Ronald Macdonald suits. I don’t care how much you cost. You are the best in the business. You took the Assasins creed. I implore you, please consider my case. I now own a cockroach farm and will gladly send you finely fried adult females sauteed with wasabi: my grandpas specialty dish. I do miss him and want his death avenged. Thank you for your time and may the fellatio be with you always.

Yours, discreetly,

Fathom Of The Ora.


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