Pregnant With Meaning
People that mess with meth get turkey garages. And nature ceases to exist without being framed and hung from telephone poles. Events turn into sloppy anarcho-orgies in oatmeal porridge breakfasts before dawn, the pawns illuminated by the rising sun. All day we poured gasoline into the gutters to counteract any beauty they might create later. They carved seashells into penis for gifts. Penises for life. For a fuller, deeper life. Full of meaning. Pregnant with meaning. The meaning of life. Things didn't end there. The meaning wasn't enough. There were so many legs, spiny, slimy legs lined in lies of nylon lighted in neon gasses gushing over grassy grease stained lives. So we threw them in a vat of bleach and they had new shiny existences that were like rainbows of love and police brutality goes down easy with dinner on the 5 o'clock evening news. Real live nudes in full color. We only had dead and clothed midgets in black and white so they wanted their money back. But we spent it on secret surveillance and wells, so we had a problem. Unless we could find a way to store our belongings underground, long term. Longer than penis. Or so that's how I described my ordeal with the transvestites. Three hours with a penis in my thong was too long. The catering was fantastic though, so not a total loss. The dross burnt away at last we were free.
