Friday, June 28, 2013

Lance Boyle

Lance Boyle unplugged from the feasibility study and began to take note of snatches of conversations.
"Are comments a distraction?"
"Is a mad dog always homemade?"

Lance got bored as a sexpot-well and decided to dance.
He danced but no one was there to see him dance toward them.  He decided to party so he found some cardboard and wrote on it, "Will party for $$$."  He wore the sign like a candy-necklace-life-preserver and walked with great purpose through the nearest reddening public square.

A young street-hockey player wearing a Charlie Brown shirt and lo-hacked Google-glasses rolled up to him whistling "My Heart Will Go On," held out $5, and said, "Party like a virally nodding animal perpetually ejaculating the alien effluvia of a consistently boiling 'YES.'  Party like a sketch of an impossible Microsoft painting of a jeweled reptilian anomie.  I want to see beauty glow from your limbs like forgotten traffic-cones grown sentient in the perpetual dark.  Let your stigmata of Nike swooshes be a bioluminescent semaphore the last astronaut, drunk on gin and rehydrated juice, may see, whirling away from this salt-drunk sphere."

"I'll try," Lance said and picked up a feisty Boston Terrier which he repeatedly bashed his face with.  The terrier's owner screamed, cried,  and wrung her hands like ladders soughing off rain-water into penitent arid mouths upwards open in health-conscious supplication.

A dangerous wall was dropped between them from obligatory newscopters armpit-farting overhead.
A swarm of hot-winged Energizer batteries scrambled last-year's easter-eggs over the wall and lurched like bad stomachs towards a pit of claybit dead animals Lance had sacrificed to party.  They crawled through the ears of tenderized, liquid-smoked poodles, mesquite-sweet pugs, and squirrels, and aloft the nightbreeze a sound like identity-theft dropped from a great height and crashed through the park, tearing the shrubbery out of the earth like sleeping eyes lidded soft with lashed lightning, slacked out by slice-crows slick with suppurating knives.

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