February 23, 2005
bustop burbling
Don't scratch the surface. Not served whole, pop-eyed like one of those fishes with it's head, tail, I'd stew it for you if I knew how. Fillet it, Minced with fine words or crusted with sweet brown sugar. I try, but somehow it always spills out, dreadful eyeballs bulging, angry spines prickling-impossible to swallow. Even when I say nothing! Somehow it's there in the silence, You can't cook that.
Sayeth rzan at
03:55 PM
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