Author: Gordon S. Bowman III

Writer, Visual Artist, Blogger

Skyscrapers

Pepper slaying Johnson Abigail thru Chinese recreational vacuums. Scary solemnity carefree cemeteries. Inopaly sword fighting succulent peaches in two merry musketeers. Volume pouring into factory swinging slightly corner gent leaves top hate change brightly. Rude cooperations with whipped cream on top, giving solo flights into the Grand Canyon. Space lizards eat cucumber tangent albums in sprite lead bereft sold movie popcorn smoothies. Are the orangutans in story book romances locking onto skyscrapers?

Underwater Ballet and Me

Poochy playground parasites play perfectly in end type, so often was the pooch played, so close was the matinee. In rainbow trees, the stalagmites color freely in between, I’ve seen. So come and spray and make gay meetings in southern ways. Valves tease meagerly, to hope—underwater ballet and me.

Please

Very somewhat earthly and soggy, tuned to a separate key and a half. With milk, of course. I like smoogar in my fleas. Sweet poop into cottage institutes. Realms of rewinds cover triage of sorts. To ink thus peed on canvas or paper watchamacallit. To bus, put indeed around a cough and split hounds. To rub along, so please.

The Tour

Canoe is wrong. We did not go in a car. We travelled by air in a banana. A slice of apple was our portion, and a piece of bread. Are you familiar with manna? That is what it was like—almost. We climbed up into the battleship. I know it sounds preposterous. That’s because it is. We rode a long yellow bus—not a school bus. This bus had beds, a sink, a stove, a shower, and a microwave oven.there was only four of us, and the driver. Not a canoe or a battleship. A long, yellow bus.