I am: a figment of the imagination of a senile ficus plant in the possession of a chronic masturbator, tall and boneless, black-eyed, a serial person who rips off the faces of other people and slaps them silly with them, an armchair anesthesiologist, a wheelchair wiccan, a Segway Superman, sensitive, with coagulated milk for feet and centipedes for toes, an avid reader, an outdoorsman with sixteen assholes, each one inside of the previous one.
You are: a virgin who has been holding the world hostage for months by threatening to drink copiously and snort cocaine from the President’s penis while pregnant with a future messiah, stout, with crooked teeth and a bellybutton with “self destruct” written on it, no lips, breasts that scream bloody murder in a false falsetto when squeezed, a winning smile, dark auburn hair crawling with an army of lice hell-bent on Islamic jihad, insh’allah.
We will enjoy: long walks on beaches during sunsets to find a beached whale with oversized genitals to mutilate, integration of rational expressions by trigonometric substitution, Monopoly, going to the supermarket and mocking the grapefruit, the throes of existentialist ennui, clove cigarettes, inciting a worldwide genocide of people who can touch their noses with their tongues and also that dick with the mustache who works in the coffee shop.
Contact Information: I’ll find you.
Phil Kopel's work can be found on windjammerpress.org, which also contains secret nudie pictures. Find them.