She smells free hell down by a tree sore.Buy me a wrist watch willya? Can’t come? Don’t call me banana breath Buster. Tongue-ing a toupee while guys fry the time clock flat,taking shots torque-ing a camshaft into cosmic sync.Boy that Duster could fly! Aheming his way down an aisle of patrons sweating in the dark waiting for the feature to blaze into sightline, the lion’s roar, the popcorn stale,Dick Powell running game on Ida Lupino,his putt drifting just short of the cup,having to settle for a discount coupon back to charm school.Buying luggage for the scout troop,just like the square G he truly smelled like,deep in the square footage of a low nap glow lamp green carpeted swamp somewhere in Beaumont Texas.Gator grill staring back with a “what are you looking at” flaming kamikaze Buick squatting curbside,cooing,”steer me onto Route 66,no one will catch us,jump jerk-off.Come on,move,not having the whole day and stuff.”Fried,wrung out raw,calcified,mistaken for living,not knowing,chorklit frosting from doorknob dressing,bebop fressing,past a truck stop lit up like day,rolling past the neon oasis into the pitchblack starshine buying no time,sinking tire-grip on asphalt slab,donuts frying in a veggie oil pond,bumper pooling against the sides,waiting for the maple bacon crash landing it desperately needed to make a sendoff supreme.Sky-rocketing onto tastebuds drag racing to the wire.Blastoff! Sometimes good tastes like more and that’s what that was! Greasy fried eggs on top next time.Hahahahaha. finito.

Joe Kennedy

L. K. Thayer’s Foto Fetish

© 2011