Fantastic Franny and her Insensitive Fanny

Franisca daintily begins to use her cosmic calculator to quantify her success at biblical bowling but then realizes that this offends the tough bacterium encapsulating her calculator, so she stops. Instead of struggling with the wretched device, she unclogs the factory tubes on schedule to perfect her flaky fudge cooling on the crystal furnace. 

She surgically removes a tendril of the sticky goo, two scoops per cubic meter, only to realize that the dark void in her fudge pots indicates a deficit of delicious snow crisps that she purposefully poured into her pot along with the fudge. What could have happened to her successful snow crisp concoction? 

Franisca fears she overlooked the surgical petal pumps that conjoin the furnace to the pots. Nevertheless, she decides to go get some more, so ever so deftly, she adorns her gargantuan goat gear and makes the trek to Rodnam Caroo -- home to the twitterbugs and jabberclasps pedalling their prize pumps made of porridge. 

Franny purchases two porridge pumps playfully flirting with twitterbug number two who advises her to purloin a third pump from the sightless jabberclasp. She does so then quickly proceeds to the local crank-rockets corner to be catapulted back to her fudge factory. PheZOOO! Off she explosively ejects from her seat, and funny, she lands her insensitive bottom within one of the larger fuming pots only to splatter her mash all over the porcelain floor. Economically-speaking her surplus of goo allows her to heartily chuckle at her landing error without so much of a scoff or a G-ffaw! 

Finally Franny unscrews her trick jaw and delightfully consumes a handful of goo --but alas! It still lacks the salty snowflake crisps! Therefore, she proceeds to make them mechanistically with the petal pumps back in place and with a brutal paperback face, she intensely stirs her fine fudge into meatloaf shapes in preparation for tomorrow evenings biblical bowling sua-re'. 

The Wicked Warhorse

The heavens are in flames. The sky is infused with a blood-red luminance. Charcoal-black strato-nimbus clouds float heavily across the ether. An ancient warhorse balances precariously on the point of an upright, mile-long rusted needle watching the earth and it's guilty inhabitants below. At the same time, it is poised and waiting eagerly to infect the infidels with its sick armory of death. The dusk's cruel, biting wind injects its nitrate breath into the mammoth contraption and an ominous groan escapes its deep bowels. Hanging from its bellicose belly, it carries a wicked wicker basket laced with the thorns from the highly poisonous xytheron plant. It utilizes this apparatus to effortlessly deliver to its calculating master the worked-on brains of its most-deserving victims. Having the ability to induce an inhumane form of mental vivisection, the monstrous machine extracts fresh confessions from its captured prey. It spreads these wretched winnowing voices over its its cold, steel hide like rancid butter over three-day-old burnt toast: the pumpernickel variety. It pumps visceral slavery like a nine-nickel bullet point ejected from a spent chamber of an Italian-issued Beretta blue-band pistol.

This beast of death has jaws. The heavy lacerating jaws of the Great White shark. Only difference is that its jagged teeth are made of heat-treated titanium. A cobalt-irridium core lines its thick black enamel. Gums as ugly and vile as masticated tar form a tortuous seal around its gaping mouth.

The warhorse is a mind-melting machine of a magnitude much greater than the angriest of earthquakes. Currently it is processing nightmares for the forlorn. Faster than the blink of an eye, its circuitry fires up the enslaved cerebral tissue to a deep-fried supersonic roast. Only the spent crust of human brain anatomy remains: a withered hippocampus, a wilted caudate nucleus and a schism where a festered corpus callosum once was.

Nothing escapes its icy, telescopic foresight. It penetrates the immediate future like a constipated syringe to the left ventricle of the heart of a blind cyclops. However, it has enemies. As protons are pushed over the event horizon as exhaust, little children rise up like pop-tarts to battle its bulge. A big booming bulge built hell-high on its bloated back. Brick for brick, it is one bad mother! Accordingly, babies babbling incessantly bake for weeks in its built-in bread-basket. But first it lulls them into a deep sleep. Deeper than the darkest bathypelagic vortex of primordial ooze, it ferments the babies into a cerebral mud of sorts. This is the glue for integrating spent brain tissue into terror tantrum injections: a going-away gift to The Incriminated after collective-conscience processing.

Nothing but the maniacal mayhem of the children can ever hope to infiltrate the workings of the warhorse. Babies and the blasted souls of sinners are one thing but children are another. They are the bane of the beast. May the children never conquer the demonic inquisitor for all time. It's what I, the comptroller, pray for as I don my iron wool-knit socks every morning over my cankerous claws-for-feet. Come, my wonderful warhorse. Let us harvest!

The Life-cycle of a Rose

Never beyond the horizon we saw what was there for us:
an amalgam of lightning crystals and the fumes of preconceived hopes.
My best friend, Destiny, desired the fall, but I could only guarantee the vernal equinox against her imploring, smiling eyes. They were like the future. Time, dragged by the riptides of some restless, oceanic spirit, let her body embrace the starfish on the sand as we lay beneath a dripping watermelon. We lazily lapped the perspiration of the sun. 

The lips parted like golden butter yielding to a blade. We bade the resistance adieu. We knew that we would be carried away someday by His gentle hands. Waiting is effortless to a rose. Not just any flora we adore, for seven epochs prophesized the existence of reality in radical bloom. 

Trade in the material for the ethereal, my dear friend. Lest you be cast aside in the chilled shadows of matter. The superfluous energy fields of the idle, radiate with the dull intensity of those X-rays originating from the viscosity-pockets of the Milky-Way. 

Murky, quaint, cute, her face and porcelain teeth bequeathed the aspirates and labials of language to my discretion. Like an astronaut held by the throes of the moon, words were subject to my deft manipulation. All the while, heaven was on her galactic mind. 

It makes sense that all this should come from the far left. The right model will summarize any quandary of the heart as it had for me. Volumes of pedagogy instruct us to follow the information freeway of linear thought. I brought disparity into reason. 

She kept me grounded. 

Unfounded colloquialism rends the schism of the mundane and the mystery of living. As they take and take, I’ll maintain my giving until tomorrow forces redirection. But you, my dear friend, will never be carried in afterthought. To truly understand the reason for this Earth appearance, one must gently part the fog that coats the density of guarded inhibition. Time to be like children. Reach for my hand. I’ll journey with your trust along the horizon until we finish what was started at the entrance of our conception.

The Brain-Sun Moratorium

The dying sun, colliding with the killing horizon, sets the scene. A mechanical freeze-frame device, mounted at the apex of the Brain-Sun Court-Coliseum takes a snapshot of the hexadecimal photon diffraction. An electro-static, Aurora Borealis event ensues with viridian plasma chips flung skyward. It's visually pulchritudinous. 

Beginnings: the breaking glass sounds of ‘yay’ or ‘nay’ resonate in tune to the antidisestablishmentarianism of the court, dispelling the unusual beauty of nature's fomentation. The fusion-parallax universe of conformity, reigns supreme here. The insignificant minds dissolve; acquiesce to the might of the multitude. Manifestations ofthought-fumes, scattered by the strong nuclear force originating from the gelatinous sulci and gyri of the cerebrum, work in His favor -- He, the god that failed. 

Queen Envy invokes the conduct-biopsy of Prince Reginald. Will it be 69-sublime, divine castigation for the hellion? The mood is deep mauve. The ambient milieu of unrest ejected from the sun, envelopes what is, into an aeon-augmented pope-head bipartisan statement. Polemic, controversial, civil relapse collapses into the blackbox of the bellicose chain-violating brain. He whelps, "help!" Only deaf ears feign listening, making better as echo-receptacles than input-propagation feedback responders.

He is admonished and left in embarrassment, the sheen on his cheeks glows ripe like the spring plum. However, recant, he can't. His pitiful elocution would smell of heretic hearsay. His verbal lexicon, once as potent as neuron-thunderstorms, fails him as it is reduced to scattered chatter. The chosen scion could be banished into the blinking blind-eyed hurricane of Trion. 

Sentence should be issued. 

Were the brain-sun finally to explode, it would do so with zero remorse for the young God. But imperial judgment has been deferred. He must have come from the corner of somewhere. Yes, His birth began from no end: a brain-sun nightmare that, like dreams, lacks origin.

However, he is blown along by the acerbic breath of Queen Mother Judge- Jury-Executioner as autumn foliage. After all, he does deserve merit for his sacred existence. And so, his ultimate outcome is put on ice. Meanwhile, the thermonuclear space-bunnies of his belly are consumed by the ultra-saturated dark matter of night as the day for the Brain-Sun reaches its terminal point.