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August 19, 2005
Schaincöer Raga Pouch
now my hunger is growing claws. it has become a sort of fascination for me. something i can stand apart from, like a naked almond-girl with a really smooth ass, and say, "good lord, that is a nice slab of buttock there!" you know, as if i were standing apart from it. from her, that is. the naked girl. as if she were my hunger. so what i am saying is that my hunger is like a naked girl. i hope that makes sense to you because i've got an itch and i'm about to tear out my fingernails to reach it. i think i want her skin to brown slightly near the creases. in this way i can know there is true butter involved.
god i'm hungry.
i begin to feel both faint and as if someone is shoving a huge steel spike through my gut. i'm nauseated and all images of browning nakedness dissolve into greasy limbs of double-crispy chicken, actual hallucinations o'ertaking me (everyone should use that contraction at least once) as i stumble into the bathroom to cool my head by dunking my face in the toilet. ah, cool, pulpy water. i exhale happily, my lips vibrating and sending a delicate spiral of small bubbles to the surface.
as i make my way through the living-room, i exaggerate my walk so that all the sausage in the house plumps at once, and as i am quite aware that fourteen pairs of binoculars and three bb-guns are trained on me, i pass by the plate-glass window more than a few times. in the green shawl.
i frown quite obviously so that the people across the street are quite aware that those growls are not my stomach, but are, in fact, the sounds of large cat trapped in my closet. i shake my head at them, conspiratorially, as if to say can you imagine? these cats we all have to put up with!
SUPERMILK is an expert Squeezer of Lemon, Thumber of Nose, and Navigator of Moronity. His mark can be found on the Bedpan of Hammurabi, the forehead of Dagonet, and the office stationery of Jorge Bourgoise. Additionally, he braised this tender piece of monkeymeat at 12:29 PM
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