last night was funny

2003-02-28, 12:23 a.m.

the crooked fingers man, he held sausages betwixt each finger. he sang about the sausage after every sentence. he loved sausage so much, he knew their makings like a lovers knew each others bodies. He felt the skin, smooth and shiny, before he fell asleep everynight alone. The blankets were pungent, oils left to stain for the life of the cloth. He had 10 fire alarms in his room because he was a fire hazard. The love he felt for sausage was dangerous, he was fire to the touch.

one day he left his house, he left his blankets. he left the alarms to blink in silence for a few more seconds. and he turned, an onramp headed south to somewhere clean and fresh. The green Ford Taurus was the perfect color to broadcast the red morning colors. And he thought he could hear when the procession awoke, he thought he heard when the orchestra began turning pages.

Soupy smoke would have been in his eyes. His pores, bathed in oil, would have turned to some super liquid bubbling skin that begins to scab in seconds. he chose to leave them behind, all of them sticking to the cabinet walls. Crack pop sounds of meat and wood overrun the waining alarms. He didnt care and he tapped the black plastic steering wheel with ten crooked digits.

The stereo blasted "if he drives fast enough then maybe the broken pieces of his heart will stay together". Those sick fucks knew nothing about their hearts and how they could break. He drove faster because the sun was racing him up to the top of his time, he was racing with his past and his present, with music egging him on. He died that day because his heart was broken. He awoke that morning to find, ripped apart and licked into the carpet by that fucking mutt, his prize polish sausage