Aching Suits

Mellow feelings swamp the age-old serendipity meet-ups. Weird laughs call to real-time walls of political divides on strange highs from too much criticizing. Can we stand by as so much disrespect happens on the main stage media displays? I can’t conceive of wheels and brakes screeching one another among random gallabants with innocent eyes. Strong leaps to high tops of blue skies and loud calls to nearby tribes echoing for miles. Do you hear the cries to lonely, meandering children? I hide, as giant rock stars fly high above the effeminate, somewhat strange scenery, wearing clothes that don’t fit, and chains made of gold. I love the night, one says. I hear the sighs, sliding onto French fry honey molasses car chases, wondering about sly invectives, holding back the tears that long to drip into green glasses only half full. Calling nature brings selfish searches to upside down creatures, loud as any animals you can imagine in your fondest dreams.  I long to soothe angry souls, sorting among old clothes for the smallest pieces of meaning, a profession that only pays food and shelter, no more. Hallways crawl with evergreen, swallowing angels, finding roaches in their soup. Softly they search for all the pizza they can bring themselves to pee on, wondering if crazy mice-strewn hailstones can cover sailing ships to Japanese life boat callings. Happy lives filled with cherry pie feel empty as hound dog referees in drag queen marksmen. Flicking tiger tales fill African searing sunburns around railroad cars, leaping from crazy psychologist books. How do you solve European mountain goat milk bones inside merry mazes with too much spaghetti inside? I leer at wrongheaded fly traps, fearing the atheist thunder cankers today, creating false fireflies. Don’t crush too many intestinal worms when feeling around in surgery tanks. Crunching soundless train wrecks, a artichoke high can mean you’ve consumed too much marijuana odors in your leather best, forest fire shoes. Rivers of delight confuse puzzle pumps toward wandering, foul-mouthed, South American peering peels of onion blues. How do you feed treacherous sullied feet, when all you can follow is tightwad peers, who hunt tall, handless, funky leap frogs? I aired out my weeping, worn, cooled-down feature films in empty halls of adventurous, yellow pieces of quilt-hewn picture books. Hell, if steering wheels weren’t so damn sick in Alaskan sailboats, I’d sell my aching bumble bees to Kleenex barks! Won’t feature licks kick cute and ugly motorcycles? I love field pies inside subway sores! Jungle gyms fit psycho babbles geeky  strips, don’t you? Hearing this , the jack of all trades laughed, cunningly keeping all the cards in his backyard pimple boots.

Author: Gordon S. Bowman III

Writer, Visual Artist, Blogger

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