FILTHY FINGERS FINANGLE

Filthy fingers finangle with coins and finally slip them into slots. The robot arm creaks into motion and the the monster mash flows forth. The monsters mash until they are mashed. When I return to the bar they are but a green puddle on the ground. I sigh and get out the wet and dry vac.

IN BUCHAREST

In Bucharest the people are so gay that every walk is a dance, and every dance is a spasm of ecstasy. Every mouthful of food elicits fists slammed on tables and tears of joy. Each sunset brings the city into a communal hum of the purest bliss, the populace take on a purple and orange hue in their very carbon. When the sun has gone down they all look at each other with that intimate post-coital knowing shyness.

WOLVES TANGO AROUND THE CAMPFIRE

Wolves tango around the campfire. Seventeen wolves, each in perfect step, claws scraping concentric cirles in the dirt and ash, staring into each others eyes, feeling the heat and the moon and the magic inbetween, the beating of their partners heart the only rhythm they need follow. Is one wolf dancing alone, or are three dancing together? 

BRATTY BRATWURSTS

Bratty bratwursts refused to get in their buns. They flipped the cook the bird, blew him a raspberry, and rolled off down the street. They stopped at a street corner and put on shades and lit cigarettes and started harmonising in the most gorgeous tender voices you ever heard. I watched from my apartment window and thought about the young dreams I had munched each Oktoberfest.

UNREPENTANT CROWS

Unrepentant crows peck out the eyes of everybody they fly past, spitting them on the ground, leaving a grisly trail of eyeballs that stretches for miles. Quick dogs follow the trail, gulping the eyeballs with such fervour that they promptly vomit them up, and so what was once a miles long trail of eyeballs becomes a series of piles of eyeball filled vomit every few hundred metres. One eyed victims stumble and scream and try not to stand in piles of their own eyes.

IN THE SHADE OF THE APPLE TREE

In the shade of the apple tree I ate a pear. The apple tree was so offended by this breach of etiquette that it reached it's branch down and slapped the pear out of my hand. "What am I, chopped liver?" it said. "No, apple tree", I replied, "You are simply the bearer of the most blasé of fruits, the vanilla of the fruit world." Suddenly I was swarmed by flying vanilla pods. They tore at my flesh and gouged at my eyes. And rightly so. Vanilla is a bold and unique taste that should never be direspected with assosciations of blanditude.

OH WHAT A LONELY NIGHT

Oh what a lonely night up here on the moon. I have had no visits from little green men, I have had no space explorers drift past and give me the thumbs up, I have had no giant babies floating above me, I have had no moon dust take the shape of a beautiful woman, I have had no robots who seem so amazingly empathic and human, I have had no space fungus that beams thoughts to me and makes my brain throb. I am truly alone with myself on this cold dark rock on this long lonely night.