A Quiet Evening Twisted by Neon Blobs in Oakville, Washington

I fixed the containment grid, but something happened to my eyes. On the way home I noticed these orbs in my driveway. I touched one. it burned, and a jolt of electricity shot through me. There was something crawling into my mouth, a jelly blob. I couldn’t stop it.
A neon large intestine flew down from the sycamore tree and tried to stab me with a potato latke, a burnt one. I called the saints. I rolled some quarters. It was Wednesday.
They hissed and snapped. They circled my car, my house, trying to get in. I cowered on the floor in house. I couldn’t breathe I was so scared.
More snakes arrived. The wind was hot, but the rain never fell. Somehow they got in through the door. They attacked me. I blacked out. When I awoke, they were gone.
I made some pancakes. I hummed tunes.


Neon doldrums


A lovely parlor is useless without lovely lighting.
I smeared ghosts with wine, talked with sparks flying from my throat like struck horses.
Fifteen thousand empty nights.
Fifteen thousand empty glasses.
I sold my soul to a florist. She felt uneasy about the exchange but took it nonetheless. I adorned this table as a ghost floral arrangement for fifteen thousand days and nights.


The creaking of a dozen rocking chairs, the smell of eucalyptus and creosote, the walls running with fetid oily sweat. Outside, a strange gelatinous substance rained down and filled the gutters and rain barrel. It tasted like star fruit.

I shall never see sunlight. I live in the darkness in an old rotten piece of fruit.

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