When the door close, the gale blow and scrunch the knob against thy weakened fingie-tits. Back home from hard learn’n, you is. Back home from Emelie, the slapping ho, who you took to the boy’s bathroom and showed how to eat a urinal cake. You’ll be slap free soon enough. She gets the big-big pan no doubt, soon as the bike route changes to screech her way away from you on that 8-speed cum-nugget of a ride she calls a bicycle.
Your head lurches, daddum through the window watching you splash tetanus-blood-flecked globules of oil in your hot mouth. Makin’ a yella pool for the skin n’ bones sleeper that’s just comin’ to. Blood in the mouth. Teeth hangin’ by sewing thread veins.
Don’t you fucking let them blood blobs hit the floor, yeh lil’ fucker. Lest you prove to me that you’se the triflin’ lil bitch that you and I and God know you is.
That’s what he tol’ you, so you catch another one of the hot splashes on your tongue. The concrete is so clean and gray you could lick it, and it’s all cuz of the oral sacrifices you make.
The flipping screecher, armless, begs at you from the big-big pan under the portico. That’s only what happens when they feel the real heat. Always does. They say a frog in hot water won’t talk shit, or something like that, but they wrong as heyle. Either that or because this big fucker ain’t no frog so it can’t count like the saying goes.
He’s sizzlin’ right, like a wet towel in a canola hot spring. Dinner soon, when he’s given up and just decides to crisp and swish on the styx.
You always put a coin in the mouth, but it’s one of them what with the strings that you pull as a joke, so when they get there (you think you’ve timed it), you suck’er right out with the string and they’re left ferryless and gotta wait on the shoreline watchin’ their grams and gramps slosh by in the endless stream. Give you a fuckin’ boner just thinkin’ about the rightness of a true blue prankin’.
When the door close, you can barely hear the wind. The big turbines of the silverbirds don’t even hit your ear. You can feel something still — the little wriggler under the skin of your foot, trying to find its way out through the bed of your fattest toenail.
You can feel the way Daddum still watches you from his kitchen windur, as he calls it, and hides away behind the curtain when your eyes catch his. From here in the mulch garden you can’t even smell the barfy copper smiff that rides the airstream — a cancer of daggers for the olfactories.
Mask time. Mask time is right before dinner but after meditation. Mask time is only fun if you’re willing — otherwise it’s really not fun. So you flip the mask right-side-out, put it on, and the jiggly rubber bounces back breath bombs into your singed nostrils. Teeth like pale corn are reeking fence posts for the air that oozes its way out of your esophagus. The ol’man, you call you. That’s the mask you is now.
Crispym’n is bobbing in the big-big pan, the skelerton face singing with no voice. Good wind only passes through here. You pull the coin. A green man — an alium from the outer reaches of the crucifix nebula –once told you so. And if the one with the laserblaster doesn’t know what good wind is, who the fuck would?
So anyway it’s dinnertime and Daddum is already ready with his tore up lobster bib and big fuckin’ fancy funny fork and knife set he bought from the novelties shop. The crispym’n is feather-light — all rock now like a ripper dog cooked in the pyroclasm. Slap it goes onto the table and before you can even spurt a word of grace the old man’s at it, suckin’ at the feets and makin’ the raunchiest noises anyone could ever make with a finger-ful mouth.