The Girls of Planet Octagon

Midnight splashes hot glass into brain bubbling with scintillation after marathon tracking session – on the hunt – weapons glistening;
Merciless slaughter of encroaching self-stupidity leaves little room for anything but collapse, and the words are all turning into numbers;
Numbers into colors into extremely long nonsense monologue, which pops occasionally into highlights of sheer delight requiring recuperation.
But — they want to do it again, won’t take no for an answer — the savage Girls of Planet Octagon, with their screaming eyes and flesh-tearing
Fingertips, and they don’t just sit and stare hips gyrating lips licking tongues fading back into silence suddenly leaving me agog again
In tacit dumb recollection supposedly accomplishing something significant. Sing, they cry, dance as we dance spinning lazily on Chinese restaurant

Ferris wheel food delivery system where charnel ground of dim sum unfolds sumptuously. More Chinese here, Grandpa proclaims, than in Montana,
But won’t order pork by strict order of Ellen G. White while increasingly ridiculous trays of same noodles appear over and overflowing bounds
Of decency and chicken feet which I happily chomp, not expecting quite so much bone, but Grammy spits onto plate, so I do too: baby sister won’t
Touch it, but also feels squeamish about eyeballs. Hence: annual eyeball ritual, this year (prior) popped two from crab and sneaked them onto plate
At impromptu ‘vegetarian’ table only to find one re-exported to rice bowl, so HA! into my mouth with the surprisingly crunchy blob, although . . .
Earlier spectacle of obscenely large lobster crab flopping fish display did not entirely thrill — better relish the more the flesh we owe: and perhaps

A whispered farewell, remembered in passing as glimmering buzzardette feasts on brain, makes mishmash of inherited concepts which allegedly ferment well,
Witness evidence of deliriously drunken Dixieland duo dancing dementedly across sentential semblances. Too bad tastebuds cannot talk, proclaims tongue
Without hint of irony, but bad-influence babe whispers somewhat sarcastic seduction in ear — not, protests properly prosaic patron, at the table:
As though that will help, as though it won’t incite further antics of inconsequential signification teasing lascivious pursuit through indefinite clause
Relentlessly half-abashed fully cognizant that, ‘She got the goods.’ So . . . once again, my place or yours verbiage sounds trite until self-conscious
Quality becomes apparent: greasy is a state of mind which can’t keep her hands off my can’t resist sneaking quick peek at sky out passenger window;

Around bend in paragraph; up ‘unsuspecting’ skirt of teachings entrapment; into major hive of Planet Octagon, where they lead you blindfolded, drugged,
And in disguise to pick out actress for your next great invention, lubricating wheels of technology through vivid hairstyles and novel form of musical theater,
Based primarily on proto-indo-european research into non-symbolic bellydancing, five-dimensional Algebrassieres required for safety in order that you not wake up
With stroke. But no, this time we bare all, whispers wispy waitress at all-night concept cocktail party slipping who-knows-what into already full glass
And gesturing with moist finger, and I cannot resist the proferred sample, but do manage suddenly, for once, the gasped question: “Who are you anyway?”
“But that’s the question isn’t it,” they don’t say, don’t dangle hips in dream-like disoriented dalliance daze, don’t even wink because they’ve . . . disappeared.

© 2010 Chhi’mèd Künzang


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