Monday, November 12, 2012


dirty child juices flowed downstream of the thought of putting dried up poo in the bottom of a half full Cracker Jack box for the mean neighbor kid who pushed my little brother down the hill then punched the middle of my chest until I cried out in the side yard cride like a wee lil' babyface! but only in my mind and the hearts of my less-than-sympathetic audience unjust as it's always been after fantasizing the police arresting him (the mean neighbor kid) and him resisting twisting and squirming and getting beaten in the street with hard wooden nightsticks and peeing his pants in front of everyone and his parents being so humiliated red-faced with shame chided by honest neighbor laughter that they cannot stand can no longer bear to have him be their son and legally disown him while he's in prison breaking dusty white rocks and tearfully making plates of bent and crimped metal in a greasy meaty factory filled with menacing prison rapers and frightening scarred-up creeps and freaks like fireworks in the night sky open-mouthed disbelief capped by a carefully focused vengeance wide as a black river slowed down with poison and dappled with the wit of childlike vision

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