Chunk

ARG, but why do I poke so hastily in the ribs of the dog that has no squirrel to chew on? I feel so inconsiderful, that I wood pick, with mine fingernail, the scab that licks the back of the gargoyle that sits upon the perch of no building. Why then do I crunch so boisterously the crust of the pizza of a dogs life, as if I had some big, blue bowling ball to go to a bad movie with, so I could shove buttery, burnt popcorn in its holes, just out of spite, because they are too small to stick mine fingers in?

What a waste of a waist I be. My misery could easily match the sorrow of the piston engine (painted red with chrome highlights) whose crankcase won't turn. My crankcase won't turn either, and it gives me a crackly, stiff feeling in my little finger and third toe, which eats the cheese it produces itself, through its toothy mouth, agape.

Why did she leave the other night, like a jello mold that wouldn't set, providing no firm hold for the fruit that now tries to live there? For live there it must, lest it be orphan fruit.