great balls of flaming fire, it's ***** FLINGERS **** FINGERS *** FOAMERS ** FRENETIC * FLOWERS OF DISRUPTION * number 31 * the zine for tashee and anjah * november thanksgiving afterwards 1999 * if it doesn't happen before the world ends, the world will end -=*()*=-=*()*=-=*()*=-=*()*=-=*()*=-=*()*=-=*()*=-=*()*=-=*()*=- you jump up and down on my stomach wearing kangaroo shoes. your gloved hands wave in the air. a smile erupts on your face as you become illuminated. you are the cross on my altar. and you've fallen. you roll around on the ground like a tasty carpet burrito. static electricity livens your hair. you sing a song of sixpence for a homeless man. my brain jiggles in joy. i tap you on your shoulder twelve times. "pardon me, where do you keep your skeleton?" i ask. "that's for me to know and for me to keep secret," you reply. if your teeth were white chocolate they wouldn't be there anymore. "how is your skeleton doing?" i prod. "it's quite nice, living dangerously." roll about. my arms cross my chest to bar the doors to my heart. "you are supposing things," you tell me. "like what? what am i supposing?" "you believe my skeleton is mean and evil. you believe it makes my eyes glow and my mouth lock. you suppose that you could talk to it and ask it to leave." "i've not yet met a friendly skeleton," i comment. "maybe they're all scared of /you/. maybe they just want to be left alone. maybe they're deaf and dumb." if the streets were full of people you'd swim through like a dolphin. split apart the seas of fantasy. i sit down and my hair grows. and i breathe. "what is your skeleton's name?" "we've only been briefly introduced, then it went and hid. i haven't talked to it since. would you like to ask?" shining. "yes, i would." "so would i," you reply. majestic. you roll over again. something about the wall holds your interest. stare. "sometimes you would like a milkshake, sometimes you'd rather have a suntan." your eyes are on holiday and i stare at the ceiling. a haunting measure of script music runs constantly through your hair. too complicated a melody to sing along. "what's floating about?" i ask. "huh?" "what's on your mind?" "i'm talking," you say. "to yourself?" "or someone like that." the wall seems so captivating. but i'm not interested. "rinky dink! shake that bag-o-bones!" i dance. my arms form waves. my head bobs left and right. i dip and rise forth. something is making you giggle. no, sob. it couldn't be me, i'm not around. it's something inside you. you lay on your stomach and i watch your back. i watch the shirt on your back. i love how it moves without acting. it arches without bending and curves without weaving. it cordially shakes hands with your hair while mine waits in line. and i can roll with it. i can place my hand on it, and do. my palm melds. i can hug you, i can hold you, i can feel you and you can sob. you seem to have a spine, i touched it. it's a fine spine. it's made out of a stone which looks like putty. i could throw a vertebrae and expect it to bounce, but it would bend the earth. your face is warm and wet, which makes mine so. my head leans to yours. the tears have splashed onto your cheek, hands of windshield wipers, spread moist over an uneven surface, dimples and pores and a warm rosy complexion. a steamy red washcloth. lots of clean soap. your soul is a cottonball named peter cottontail and he stole my carrot. run from the farmer because "my skeleton is buried deep beneath." my head leaves yours. my hands on your shoulderblades. "the garden?" i ask. pupils pop. eyelids gone. head falls. you stand. "i'm sorry," i apologize. "with the carrots, and peter cottontail, and all. we humble ourselves." i stand and bow, arm across my waist. "at your service, madam." i now see your head has turned again. suddenly my legs give out. my back, my hips, my arms, my neck. a mass of flesh working towards the ground, the skyscraper minus the elevator. minus the iron frame. cracked windows. dead people. my eyeballs roll. you look at them. carrying a sack labelled "BONES", you scuttle toward the door. "thanks," you leave. "bye," i ask. -=*()*=-=*()*=-=*()*=-=*()*=-=*()*=-=*()*=-=*()*=-=*()*=-=*()*=- jingle bells go to hell i don't give a crap if you're lost and crabs eat you i'd laugh right out my head *ding* jingle bells nimble fool fight inside your brain when yer hate is all you got yer mouth is full of rot. *ding* deck the halls with balls and toppings fuhfuflhufhlfuhlfuhfluhf easter bunny smells like mommy fuhlfluhflfuhflufluhluhfluhfuhlfluhfhlu grab the toast, my jelly's melting FufhUFHlLUFHhufuhLFlhuFLUHFLuh FLal al la lal ala hallelujah, death is nodding LA L ALA LAL LA LAL AL AL LA LA LA -=*()*=-=*()*=-=*()*=-=*()*=-=*()*=-=*()*=-=*()*=-=*()*=-=*()*=- the lobsters gnash. click clack shells go smack but who started the fight? was it lenny or bruce? hmm, seems bruce doesn't even know that he's fighting. and now lenny's walking away. Coward. start a fight and then leave. oh, but bruce is bleeding. he's bleeding blue kool-aid! pardon me. bruce smiles. lenny guiles. the word on the street is bruce can shell two peanuts at the same time but lenny can only do one. lenny's been telling people lately he can shell THREE but nobody's seen him do it. i bet if i went over and looked in his window sometime, i'd see him practicing. but bruce is so far ahead that i bet when lenny's out at the bars cracking three peanuts simultaneously, bruce will be at home shelling FIVE and not even telling anybody. after all, he's got kids to look after. kids are building a sandcastle as it sticks together with blue kool-aid. a nearby towel advertises Salem cigarettes and an umbrella spins in the wind. a car in the parking lot knocks over a garbage can while pulling away, women scream from inside and dogs find a feast. the best meals are prepared by other people, brought to you by servants, resting on a plate in front of you, ready to be devoured. pringles are premanufactured and best eaten at a beach on a warm day under a fiery sun and over the sand. no crumbs on the blanket. a green cooler says "mountain dew" and contains melting ice and cans of pop. a wet smooch between two lovers sounds out to the ocean and echoes back on waves. somebody's waiting for 'guffman' and doesn't know if he'll show. -=*()*=-=*()*=-=*()*=- beaches -=*()*=-=*()*=- make -=*()*=- love easier ŠÕÕª .-. 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