J. C. Kuehn Miller

Read. Write. Repeat. Aspire to be a Janitor.

A Love Affair

In the cemetery. The headstone read Look For Hope Elsewhere. Hope was elsewhere. She was pulling the eckrob from the dishwasher in the back of the restaurant. Pulling the udders of the lerzek cow. Fornost blitzkrieg showering seashells on the heads of the innocent. Sand gliding through the fingers of children smiling laughing thinking. Her eyes were thinking. Light brown glimmers on a face too sweet to frezzel. Waves crashing against the porthole window. Streak. strike. Forcibly wob din of confusion. Lions purring. Panting. Her pants were too big.

Maternity trousers ballooning, steam billowing, choo-choo trains training tranies. Her vis, pretty little dime. For holed nickel. She bought her thoughts for a penny. Quarter round trim framing her body. Deep oak finish. Owl cloak hair hide the slight smile.

At night, neon red, blue, green lights wrap her skin snugly like a kolroque robe. She was a heartbreak waiting to happen. Happening to happenstance. Standing on the edge of the chalk cliff, nose diving to the rocky palms.

Boiling dates for a latter matter. Desert seconds for second desserts. Two fourths dani vodka and wormwood with third people dead. It was said for thoughts increase in increments judgmental zeek of chairs on end. In the end, the beginning for me-for you-for the naked girl let’s go to us. Damnable smile. Auctioning bits of heart for heat in bed at knightly disclosure.

She danced a little dance, pirouetting wrestle mania dipped in vanilla. Etched smiles carved into caving trees. She danced. I slept. Lips pulled up into the cheeks. Rosy. Cute. Frieck likes candy coated winter coats. Fur sustained in jetstreamed writing utensils flying over fish in flight fighting for baked potatoes and grits and southern belles. West coast left most desirables unattended, stolen away in secrecy as secrets know no friends. They say friends are friends until the end.

The i always comes before the e in neighbors and broiled turnups the volume. No sea to see the c. Twisted nostalgic fingers toil betet consistently conversely in sun-glazed gnomes.

She said yes. I said no.

I said yes. She said no.

Tossing the pillow against the wall. Moan to bears and showers. Trickle waterfalls falling in fall. The supeet moon dragged through the sky. Night weeping moist tears tearing limb from cursed limb. Saladin bruised the buried bodies tucked beneath the bed. Creaking. Cracking. Mort. Fin.

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This entry was posted on May 29, 2013 by in Short Story, Surrealist and tagged , .
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