The Book of Pages

This is why we can't have any OK things

I didn't ask for my hat to be converted into a flat rag bath. I do not recall nor do I recoil on how or why you boiled all the soil for the radius of several blocks. I go down I slow down. I sit and chew my chalk. Let the political world go by, as long as it's not me that's poked in the eye. Keep rushing, gotta hurry, got a date with a grave in a couple decades. Rushing about and prepping things. Getting all tan for hells eternal flames. Shining shoes and a bright top hat. I can dance a couple ways and I am ready for all that. I got a 3-d printer that can print any badge. Don't fuck with me, I'lll pull false authority. Truth holds no sway on me nowadays. No plight blights afterbites or flaming kites today. No truth holds sway. I will stay on replay today. That's OK, let's make it forever. Catch cupcakes from the screaming white waters. Lay in the hay with the country folk's daughters. Form a caravan that stretches across the land. Eating snacks I am barely aware of as I show the TV ways into my mind. Consume, all the way to doom. Why else can't we have nice things? The cogs are clotted green with mildew and spilled brews. The walls give away in sad flaps. Chalk protection circles around me as a jerk it, glow in the dark merkin. You know the clotted dawn. The ungolden triad, the pockmarked nipples. The soylent in chief. The ever-lasting flash. Lost my faith in cheeses. Many years poll volting all the way home.

What gives

Many drinks into the night, Jack Clarke started playing some tunes. The Crispy bacon 23 and a half started the playlist with rollicking walking bass lines and flange soaked didgeridoos. Bells and atonal whistles, and bellowing from a far off confrontation caught on field recorder. Next up, the Ripping Rippingtons. Slide sitar and Jim Whiskey's famous edible drumset. A long bluesy dirge that takes forty-five minutes to hear. Jack was drunk as hell by the time it was over. Next the punk power of 80's lesbian rock band, the Cunning linguists. A valkrie war cry of five fat blonds packing power onto power and rocking Jack's socks off. He never found his right sock again after that event. Jack went for a piss, looked in the mirror a bit. Got a bag of chips and a soda from the kitchen. He missed a short song while away. He returned to hear the last forty seconds of the Tremolo Counts rendition of Strange Fruit. He loved what he heard but he passed out after opening the bag of chips and spilling the soda on the floor. A pivital song lost, forgotten, never heard again. Back to sleep, away from the herd again. Taking in some dream tourism. A rapid eye movement vacation. They do it all across the nations.

When the night writhes

Statues of clay

For thousands of years, these statues rested under the lake til the great drought brought them out. Pre-human statues kilned in forest fires. Gilled amphibian humanoid beings.Of course, shortly after being discovered the Smithsonian Institute came from nowhere, like Men in black to gather up these ancient statues and take them somewhere to be smashed into dust.

Sticker farm

The childhood farm grew green tall and lush. Lizards and turtles and frogs filled the pond. But then the wealthy nearby county damned to river to keep it to themselves. The land grew dryer. Many lifeforms died or moved on. No more lizards, goodbye frogs. But thorns, stickers cockleburs, basically about anything that can stab you but is not a cactus grew all over the farm. These stickers had extractable chemicals so a truck's flatbed full can net a farmer a couple hundred bucks. A hell of a price to pay for toiling to gather tens of thousands of these nasty items. Sticker farm, barely making enough to feed the fams and pay the taxes. Burning stickers for warmth in the cold of winter. I still remember dozens of broken off sticker tips burning with mild toxic throbs under my skin. Cold, cold sticker farm, eating grasshopper meats.

Other uses for Silos

That certain pasture

Certain spots are bends on the map. Places where the actual amount of space there is bendible. This pasture can go on for miles when things line up right.

The door only ripples

It took me three minutes to get up off that worn out easy chair. So hammered with the booze and pills and greasy sea-food salads. I belched with every step with a sporadic bass hits of staccato flatulence to make the beat complete. I made it to the little window in the door to see my beloved of ten years back opening her car door. I started to turn the door handle when I suddenly sharted. Liquid and gas trickling down my pants. I sadly watched her go. I checked my phone to see if she texted or called, even though she didn't know my number. No, just swung by all unexpected like. I washed off, changed clothes and brooded over more booze awhile. Stomach churning. Acidic pain, vomiting. Belly was never the same again.

Mid-West Mythos

Rituals of the new rain

Long dawn when the dew cures the leaves, mellow breeze drys them hanging on the clothesline. A flapping fanning of leaves like autumn hands. Now we spread a light layer of flower resins. Little hard clusters of sugar that raise bumps on the mushrooms that grow in the shelter belt after rain. The long dawn when we bake masks of bread in a red brick oven. The symphony of birds surrounds us.

Slow splendorous dreams in the hammock breeze. A kingdom made of thought. A light mist of nutrient rain. The smoke of savory herbs in the silent wind. When the crows die we remove the beaks and paint them with bright glitters. They hang in clacking mobiles and in clicking windchimes.

Yellow grains that bend and flex in the wind like the water of an inland lake. The wind stirs the crop and it sounds like the sea. A ghost ocean, a geologic memory.

Morning lows in with curls of floating mystic fog. Birds rattle and chirp, strange ever-changing feathered folk songs. Soap made of grub worms. Shampoo created from frogs legs. The long dawn may never end. Evenings spent lolling in a boat, along the swollen flooded river. Long snakes bask on the banks.

Tomato God

Deep underground, hundreds of pounds of red ripe larval substance. The Tomato God is fond of sacrifices and masked dancing in all night bonfire rituals. Red blood, red tomatoes. When the patch is ripe, take a life, blood sprays on the hungry plants. The higher quality life fed to the Tomato God the finer the product. That's why football players from nearby towns are a prime target. A good healthy strong jock can feed the crops for three years and produce the finest yields. Red ropes hang in parents closets til the nice sacrifice dance.

With these new seasons come new holidays

These who are gifted among fields wearing strapped on wooden beaks. The others nodded. A new holiday for the fifth season. He that hath me spring and summer, in Suspension cities. "I heard the voice book, The Lion from the book talks like a man". And I remember seven mountains. Watching them from the round window of my cell in the suspension city. Tall jagged mountains said to be the thrones of long-dead gods. And I beheld delicate and sensitive merchandise. Fine things crafted by Elvin hands on the dark side of the moon. Biscuits baked with the nectar of the eon flower.

Gushing of abominations worships him that, Primal Analog Forbidden beast voice. Fucking in a dark of God sent blasphemy, walk in it. Blind sex with rubber gelatinous beings. Gouts of foul-smelling cum drags the breeze. Dead bodies of Men who did not survive the ritual squelch under walking feet. These four-decades-long weednaps. Twenty-thirty years in a stoned sleep. Awake one midnight alone in the field, miles from the nearest small town. Get up and walk, there's nothing else to be done now. Holy, holy, LORD trumpet. A fanfare that shreds the hills. The villagers cower under a rain of frogs. Workers go hungry, replaced by cogs. Townsfolk marched away at gunpoint, the city devours another town. Forced to relocate to a dirty unfertile lot.

Strange variations of religions go on crusades to smite the sinners in other towns. the differences between themes get more extreme over time. The kids chalk the sidewalks with strange new sigals, the images of new gods not yet known to the adults. But soon, Grannie, and auntie Beth will feel these new god's wrath.

We can't stop sleeping

Special herbal mixes at the great ziggurat. To empty tomorrow train. Packing smoke in the back brain. A sea of constant milking. That's where late winter crabs scuttle. They are responsible. But moon Coffee maiden whose on a full throne, which are with the Trancemaker. The Crossroads have brought along from sleep in a drunken Dream. Airtribe Meets the seal, and, lo, their Nightshade an Omnipresent eclipse bird it comes out of the river. but I drunkenly follow. I see now A plague of frogs. brutal kick of nausea throne.

I've been calling colors. The pipes produce porn to the varnished remix of unscored thoughts. Some four that sat on blood from the big wildlands farm/ranch. and with death, the red square. The book is written within the Eclipse. you might be selected to kill the bright sunlight. The same new songs under the construction going drawn from a box. The trees were sprinkled with still wet roadkill. Be unto him that signs of human activity world society and technology a feedback pain signal gristle speck and tinsel breeze. Ancestors Temple of Dust that you drink. Islands of green salt. Light The Leaving Time of pleasure. A feverish day the name is beast they say, Come and cry into tear-milking machines. A long night voice. Dressed in black these here fall down before him in this complex of outbuildings. They dug it in windchime calm.

The leashes churn in their caskets, from behind a veil other than your own. The next stranger's yard free now, reign people's sheeples. The steeple town. A boat ride to twenty elders of the flowers. Leave the house. A spotlight on the highest income earner's dicks out. stumbled over the blankets other sticky Cold gropes Pull them apart, put Night Jasmine in the hole that once housed their heart.

Sweet silent snow dive bombs and curls in the hot July wind. Another zen pin taken down buried underwear, its a turf war, its another chore. We are lost now, someone ate the candy map. We followed wholly butterflies and we've done lost track.

The Scarecrow's Lessons

Once of the ago a boy was walking through the summer fields alone and not on his family's land. He loved to wander the fields. Normally ,he waited til after dark but this was an afternoon hike. The sky was gray and threatening rain. It was delivered in the form of a downpour. The boy was two miles from home and the only nearby cover was the shelter belt. That is a line of trees planted at the end of the dust bowl. The thick trees kept must of the rain off him. Drops of rain plinked the many windchimes that hung here. All different sizes and types. Metal, glass, ceramic. Who put these here and why would they do it? It seemed somehow ceremonial. And the ground below the trees was sprinkled with red and green cardboard cut out hands. It reminded him of some sort of a school holiday grade school project. The hands were folded and bent from getting rained on a few times. Looks like they must have been left in in the early spring. That's where he met the Scarecrow Shaman. An old Scarecrow from way back in his great grandfathers time.

Somehow the boy was not frightened by the animated Scarecrow. He was fascinated instead. Scarecrows have always been a tribe of story-tellers. So they appreciate nothing more than listeners. The boy asked him about the red and green hands. He then sat down cross-legged as the Scarecrow told him his first tale. The boy asked about the red and green cardboard cut-out hands. The scarecrow told him that they blow in on the south breeze from another world every year on the same day. Scarecrow did not know too much about why or how. He did know why children in some other world the occupies the same physical space as our own make them. In this other world society and technology are much like our own. The oldest known human temple was somewhere around forty thousand years old. Mostly constructed of megalithic stones and at one-time wood and plant materials that have all rotted away. A wonder it was to science. But then they discovered caves beneath the structure. In these caves were signs of human activity at least ten thousand years earlier than the construction of the temple. All along the cave walls are superimposed hand prints made by children. Hands dipped in vibrant red and green paint. The paint is the most amazing part of all. Modern synthetic latex paint like you might buy in any hardware store today. But pressed hand prints of it were made fifty thousand years ago!

A long warm wonderful summer with no school! The boy returned often to that shelter belt with its cascades of windchime calm. The next visit he asked the Scarecrow. "Are you alive? How can you talk if you are made of straw?"

The Scarecrow told the boy about an old tradition, now almost forgotten. The small farming towns and areas would use human sacrifice as a way of fluffing up the crops. There was a council of elders consisting of the most wealthy farmers. They would choose the most unwelcome to them anyway, member of the area Normally this was the drunk or drug user. Scarecrow was once a normal person. He once had a name, but his name and much of his human life was been forgotten over the years. The townsfolk selected some Men to fetch him from his shack. The local law enforcement, the high school jocks, and a few other guys who like beating up a drunk on a quest. Even if you suspect that you might be selected for the death of the year you don't know when it will happen. A couple bad cases fled town weeks before the ritual night of the Dream-Cheese. The jocks were planning on getting him early. The capture of this years sacrifice seemed to come a little earlier every year. Being as the lower character citizens often fled or made themselves hard to find until after the killing was over. Ed Gorilow evaded being caught for three years running. He of the drunken blackouts, home invasions and exposing himself to any female not in safe company. Fourteen weeks before the deed he would vanish. Many suspected he had a still somewhere so he didn't have to buy liquor in town. But they got him three months early one night while he slept on a park bench. The biggest of the jocks suddenly jumped up to plunk his heavy ass down on the sleeping Man's belly. He awoke making a "Umph!". He couldn't breathe and his struggles were weak as they beat him up and put him in a hold. He was taken to the holding room. Three drunk jocks got the year's prize. That's free sodas from the soda shop until the execution of the new prisoner. And lots of attention and bragging rights. Drinking is forbidden in this town but jocks age 16 up are allowed since they are holy warriors, the fighters of the town. The highest income earners also are allowed to buy booze because they are responsible. They also get the deca-vote. Meaning one of their votes = ten votes from other townsfolk. Now the Man destined to be made into a scarecrow is locked up. Fed nasty meals full of special herbal mixes to help prepare his body. He shall be transformed into a smelly black substance that resembles cheese. A cheese that smells like still wet roadkill on a July afternoon. A cheese so sweet, so delicious, yet so nasty. You must strain not to vomit with each nibble. But a vibration starts in the genitals and spreads out through the body of ecstasy! People dance and scream! Some fell writhing with visions, others writhed in orgasmic bliss. It never rained on this night, not once in recorded history.

Oh, that special time in the small towns! rural warfare and back-country savagery is a big pat of the reason these small towns stay small. A high death rate. But it all goes down to natural bio-rhythms and planting seasons, and traditions repeated from behind the veil of murky time.

The Dream-Cheese Festival Time-Line

1. August 14:Blue morning

Sleep late, the kids sleep really late because the parents sprinkle sleep inducing drugs into the last night's supper. The kids get super-sugar breakfasts and are handed out plastic bubble pipes of unearthly colors. The pipes produce colored bubbles that give off a faint glow. The bubbles pop with a little puff of smoke that has odd exotic scents recognized by the back brain. Little baskets of blueberries for everyone in the family. Blue muffins for breakfast. This is the last day of work and school before the long holiday, and today is only a half day. Everyone wears blue on this special day. Some even fly blue flags in the yard.

1. August 15:Nectar: Day

Way up north they got these tear mills. A few hundred abducted and constantly abused kids cry into tear-milking machines until the ducts run dry and they go blind. The kids are then auctioned off. The really pure tear nectar has only 2% pus and blood from the constant milking. Several vials are needed to prepare this years dream-cheese. One vial is always given to the random winner of the year at the end of the day the name is drawn from a box of towns folk's signed tags.

1. August 16:Red and Green Hands
2. August 17:Candle Night

New puppy day. Candle night. The good kids get a new cute little puppy every year on this day. The year old dog from last year is sacrificed to the Tomato God In a back-yard pool party ritual.

1. August 18:The Graveyard Parade

The young kids and much more so the babies are paraded in the center lane of the graveyard. This to show off the sprouts of youth to the ancestors who churn in their caskets, making dry insect sounds of pleasure.

1. August 19:A feverish carnival

The holiday week is building to a fever pitch. This is the carnival part! All sorts of entertainment and fun games for kids and adults. Vendors of captured others, that's people from a city or town other than your own, have human shows for the towns they route through. The sexy dunk-tank. Captured teenage girls suspended above a water tank to be dropped with the thrown baseball hits the red square. The girls wear only long shirts that become see-through when wet. But they dry within minutes hiding their bodies again. So much money is made here. And for a cool one hundred bucks you can have a poke with one of the girls after hours. Sometimes the girls have to be restrained. A more violent fate awaits the; Men and Boys captured by free range agents who sell people to the carnivals. Never from around here is the code of business. Some carneys can get killed if they whore off a town daughter, but some other town far enough away to almost be a foreign land, no problem there. The Males have baseballs thrown at them as they try to jiggle out of the way. For an extra buck each, You can toss hard balls. After hours they bring out fresh victims restrained to revolving wheels to pitch real darts at/into. The concession stands sell liquor and hashish under different names and every year the cops look the other way. The children love the pull the rope to drown the old lady game. A complex series of robes and knotts controls a dunking chair an old lady is constrained in. They pull and switch trying to physically kill her. She will die before the night is out, probably from heart failure. Great fun to teach kids apathy to the others.

August 20:Joy funeral for this year's sacrifice.

Someone has to die to make the cheese right as they love to say. And every year someone does die. They would all kill their own mother if that's what it would take. No problem and no matter how brutal it has to be. These people have been waiting on the dreamcheese all year and nothing shall stop it from being. The taste so bad, so good. This year's cheese to be. An afternoon joy-funeral. It's not like when grandma dies. It's not a sad occasion of the passing of a long-standing loved one. Its' a party! It's a joyful occasion. The popular children's marching parade. Plastic trumpets rubber skinned drums squeak and make dull cascades of percussive dead air. The Man is drowned in vegetable oils on public display in a clear glass coffin. When he is decided to be dead the lid is slid open and the townsfolk dip fingers into the sweet syrupy oil for a taste.

August 21:Dream cheese black as night

All the bells of the town ring! People use whatever they find or create to pound out beats. Buckets, wooden handles clacked together. Two holes dug into the earth are. One of them shall contain the dreamcheese vessel. The other is to bring up last year's dreamcheese. Cured to gooey blackness.

Deep day walking dream

Holding mercury dust bunny bubbles in my hand. Blowing blue shiny mercury bubbles with a pink wand. Never explain before you hang, You'll just sound insane. Instead play a melody of Beatles tunes in the Easter hay. We ride and fold this flaccid banner. If re-write the wrongs of the furled. A gristle speck and tinsel beam. A wild vapor plume gone awry. A perfumed bliss cup. Choco-mints is sweet they make you throw up. Sodder porn to the varnished wall. She glued raisins to her nipples. Ignite my way with a box of chili sauce powder and a telescoping kite. I see now I be now. I is and it shall plea now. Get down to the sound of the river bats flopping on our heated foil sheets.

Curdled nerds curled up behind the road. A deep dinner of after-maths. A moat of minty milk. Unborn porn and the stores that shelf it. The biscuits of love. the leather sandwich. An example of amps that are cool. Several syncronized shirks. A fuzzy pillow dusted with cheeto powder and lit on fiber. A cross country donut roll. The unusual bugles and the normal non-entities. The day late tomorrow train. Packing smoke into tiny statues. Snow cones flung into the among. Cattle beside the chode. Processed lint. The blank carnival. A total remix of unscored thoughts.

One way mirrors as borders. The balls of the fountain thing. Brandishing my othery stick. Cold gropes in the evening rain. Missiles packed with genitals. Moisture rash or the new era. Writing history in pig Latin. The small groves sprayed with lemon juice concentrate. The people's sheeples. The steeple of my favorite Grins. Short chubby girlfuck. Tolls tone true, undead deep blue. The fangs I framed for stacks they didn't remit.

Out in the sticks they have their dicks out. For a primate whose name they have forgot. Crickets learning new songs under a sickle curve of yellow moon. The beasts of turpentine and Amish cheese are out tonight. The kites delight and loop in the sky, free of masters they will sail till broken. We have spoken now we turn our faces towards the wall.

Sticky black mirror. Faces stuck to the walls. Again we bring the leaves, red, yellow, and brown leaves to matt the floor with. We cure banana skins into tassels that float on our heads in the breeze. Hundreds of feral dogs raid the town. Days afraid to leave the house. Tarot readings on cards made of leaves. Painted with nail polish. We shall frisk the breeze. We shall leave town soon. At the end of a long silver chain we shall drag the moon.

Coffee maiden whose full breasts flow with each step. Dressed in black satin, and crow feathers.

Why brisk? This risk? The settlement made of corn. And what bricks of beans. We can eat this place once we form a face. My lovely pets beyond the grave. We like lacks. Give me seasoned facts. in the end we fuck ourselves.

Pulling the soft gray wool off of late winter crabs. They can't stop sleeping. Nothing will wake them up. Pull them apart, put bits in your cup.

Scrape the crust off the vomit prow and we sail again for musty mildewous parts unknown. A forest of soft dusty cheese. An island of flightless ducks, all fat on moss and ready for the plucking. Just pick em up and twist their heads off. A boat ride to islands of green salt. To forests of lavender scented trees. To empty islands of seagull shit scribed manifestos.

He never expected it would happen 

• 1

Brian West slept in a drunken daze.Dreams sparking and dissolving. A long night of hard drinking, the last two hours of it a complete blackout. Now the sound of bulldozers and other heavy equipment woke him with a loud gong strike of hangover. His neck hurt bad, he slept on it wrong. A brutal kick of nausea jerked him curved. He didn't vomit. Not yet. He wrapped up in the scattered blankets and he tried to get back to sleep. Too much sound from the mysterious construction. Too much harsh light coming in through the glassless windows of his shack. After laying wrapped in the ratty blankets he has used since childhood for a few more minutes his stomach lurched again. His intestines felt like a coiled snake now striking. He jumped up, stumbled over the blankets that would not pull away but instead gathered in clumps under his feet. He puked a sour stream of vodka scented bile all over his door and arms as he reached out to turn the knob. Now outside in the horrible bright light. Puking up foam and little squirts of stinking acidic bile. His skull roaring with pain. It felt like the bones would break apart from the inner pressure. He tried to get a look at the construction going on in the field across the street. But the bright sunlight sent a feedback pain signal through this optic nerves that made him close his eyes in agony. He was so weak he crawled back into bed with the door hanging open. He clenched in pain for a few minutes and then he was in and out of sleep to vomit a few more times over the next three hours. Finally spent he drank a little water from the warm jug on his cheap and warped table he had stolen from a farmer's shed. Looked like it was half ruined from leaking rain water and had sat there for many years anyway. Turns out the farmer never even noticed it missing. Brian owned no land and he paid no rent. He was a homeless drunk who had retreated to this grove of trees on unfarmed empty farm land that had been bought in mass by a land speculator some four states away. He grew up in the small city this area edged. Back when it was a small town. He had lost everything along the way but that wasn't much. Now he walked around gathering bottles and cans to make scant recycle money from. He found Native American artifacts along the river he also sold for scant money. He stole the rest and that's how he lived. The only reason why he got away with it is the town people had forgotten all about him. Even if someone saw him out walking he normally flicked in and out of there thoughts and dismissed. Only vague distaste for this shabby person flickered. On his kitchen table three pumpkins stolen from a near field. He had some other produce taken from local fields as well. It was his main stable of food in the warm part of the year. His jacket he wore in the chill of the night even was plucked off the shoulders of a scarecrow some kids had rigged up in a corn field. A scary looking specimen. One blacked out night a few weeks ago Brian was chugging whiskey and pouring it into the scarecrow's mouth. A lot of time spent with the Scarecrow. Pouring drinking into the cloth mouth and talking crazy drunken talk. When he stalked in his late night black outs sometimes he would get sick and vomit out acidic booze puke all over someone's porch, or their car. Maybe vomit all over the back yard grill. He called himself Pumpkin mask when he drank to excess. And Pumpkin mask had no love for the people of this crappy town. A good walk about the country roads normally yields about forty cents in scruffed up change. It provides all his soda funds. He always finds enough change to buy a soda by week's end. Sometimes he even buys two. Brian was Pumpkin more and more often. He had a still can he stole the ingredients to run it from local sheds and garages.

• 2

Brian begins carving pumpkin masks from the shells of stolen pumpkins. Looking scary and sinister. Drunk mad eyes threw triangle holes. Blazing eyes. Gleaming blazing eyes.

An ocean of finger reefs

Delight the corn and shiny muffin darkness. I last to be kind. The glow of the after-furnace the grievance files piled to the roof. The grimset ghost. The only puffs that count here. The doctor of genital bumps. The cheddar-horn. The crescent foil flag waves above a scorched land. Red and Green card-board cut out hands fan the breeze. Tumble like leaves across the new way. A new day and the sun is blaring down. Roast the ghosts in savory piles. Trucks bump down pitted roads. A plague of frogs. Flattened green scabs flake on the hot day lane. Shuffle yards in stranger's yard while the Man is away.

The ritual night of the Dream-Cheese

The isolated small towns have been building up to this for a festive week. A slow-building excitement. A celebration brought over from the old country. A holiday so old it's origins are lost in history. People dance to deer skin drums wearing brightly color beaks. The kids get to drink candied liquors til they pass out in a dream filled sleep. The adults drink hard liquors fermented in meat.

The slow sipping of the seasonal spirits escalates as the climax of the week-long event gets closer to the sacrifice of the cheese vessel. The evening begins with the loud clang of the gigantic bells in the town central area. The burning of Man shaped bundles of vegetation in fields. The endless layers of percussion. Bells big and small, all sorts of drums. For those who have no instruments the clapping of hands, the beats of whatever found percussion is available. Plastic and metal buckets. Metal tools clanging together. Kids striking tin sheds with branches broken off trees.

No one works that day. Excepting the noble souls who prepare the festivities. They are rewarded for this time with a year of no taxes. But it's an elder selected group not just anyone even gets a chance to join. Everyone puts a blue mint cookie on the night side table to eat when they wake up. Special blends of herbs generate pleasant closed eye visuals as they drift back to sleep for an hour or two. Strange dreams.

The tea parade starts early. Many sleep past it. All kinds of teas on trays pushed by the prettiest young girls in town. Five cups for a cup and a kiss. As many refills as you want as the parade goes by. Extra kisses five bucks. Plenty of competitive children's games. Boys boxing each other. The loser bloody nose and sobbing. Heckled by the crowd. Many boys pass the 2nd of The Five Trials of Manhood on this day. Snack tables replace the Children's sports set ups. Buttered cheese and roasted grapes are favorites this time of year. Cotton candy laced with Pumpkin dust.

All the years scarecrows have been gathered up and nailed to telephone poles. Later tonight the people will burn them up. A burnt human skeleton or two are always found somewhere in the county afterwards.

Malted Manifestos

Tip the scales til the jewels run out splash on the ground like cherry wine. And the tubes come unglued. The palace falls all rat chewed. We view this and approve. It changes the hue of our moods. Malted Manifestos for all. With vanilla powder, I shall scrawl. Mystical pudding beer for everybody here. I shall step into the light as soon as the sun goes down. Bleak giggles, smeared Mask care ah. Tubes plug into the walls and are not sanitary. Medium sized baby bunting. The rebellion of the Bile Gods. Nasal chieftains, Ash storm blocks the sun. Long walks while blacked out on a drunk. The windchime office, the gathering of empty water bottles. Tongues lap holes to escape the walls. The night leaves a fine layer of lipstick kisses overall material objects. Scratch and sniff manifestos. Exoskelital roses. Inter-painitory die ag noses.