The Scent of a Sweetened Sharing Zone

Rococo by Arcade Fire is playing. My dog is getting a trim. His penis hair is getting shorter which will make him pee on his feet. He will scoot his butthole against our hardwood floor, bringing his back feet close enough to his mouth to lick. Beethoven’s piano sonata no 23 has started. My wife’s twin has a large, flat mole on her left thigh. I’m trying to get a picture, but I’m having trouble getting good angles and opportunities. To tell the truth I’m not a big fan. I wish that it was smaller. It looks like a mess the way it is, and she doesn’t even take her top off. It’s another point of progress in my imaginary pursuit. She’s luring me further along beneath the prayer that her dad and younger sister are in fact the comedic relief that I think they are, and that he is younger than me, she and him being the hilderstern and gildrestein of our group. Her mom being the one that I’ve really got to keep an eye on.

Thirty one weeks on the chalkboard, but I am thirty years. We’re all making fun of Cozette’s baby names. She likes names like Golden and Omerozone. Bardot. Violence is doing her hair light blue. She couldn’t come to the pool, and even if she did, she seems like the type to wear a one piece with shorts on top.

The mom, my mother in law, is taking pictures. They are talking about me and the disjointed stare that I’m gawking around the room. Yeah, I know I’m the main attraction. I like to put on a show. I’ve got this need to impress. I’m playing the piano upside down. The dumb look on my face is accompanied by the smell of toast. People are pressing my wife’s belly button and strumming it like a banjo. I’ve got to roll with this and not get self-conscious because the most insignificant of things have a way of becoming great. A voice in my head has me looking at the moment through the corners of a unified mind space, and I’m making it personal between us, crafting inside jokes out of the oh so common clouds that people still can’t seem to be able to get enough of. I’m here, fingers wrapped around the reins, encircling the mist and turning it into the backbones of the conflicts that we are trying to resolve. Enemies, allies, the reasons that we move across this heartfelt heartland. Feet and fingers rifling through play boxes, the moment scraping long and fast. My concerts are in sync, the baby is dancing, currentivism is set in line to be the next best thing. Hot and sweaty. Hot and ready. Her mom asking if she can be my mom. You’ve got to tell her that you love her, says Musette.

I’m staring up dumbly, the fan creaking somewhere else inside of me, and there are those that say that we shouldn’t be talking about poetry in our poetry, but I don’t care what they say, because I’m on my own quest, and i’m dancing to the beat of my own drum. There is a bit of a king in my neck. I’ve got to keep going, and her dad is eating his wife’s banana. Someone is having a leash on the littlest nad. Someone has their banana in a bunch, safely, smelly, and quite right nice. Mom is asking what it’s called, and my sister is telling us that she doesn’t want to tell her because she doesn’t want us to be influenced by the brand. She is smiling like a basket of oranges. She’s shaving her mom’s smell it, and she’s asking if it is one of the best smells that she’s ever smelled, and her mom is saying that it is one of the best smells that she has ever smelled, and Musette is saying that she would like it as a perfume. I would like to have this be the greatest gift of my honeymoon. Super french. Violent and floral. Stella. And, I’d like to put this in the diffuser, she says.


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