"This is where I smelt the hair of the Italian woman's underarms," he thought
to himself, though that particular memory didn't have any particular positive
connotations. In fact, it made him gag repeatedly.
But here was our hero, once again. His real name was Bog, but everybody just called him
"Peat." That didn't change the fact that now, a litany of thrasher-punk
rhyme-schemes echoed through his carbuncle-encrusted brain. The hum was not unlike the
static buzz floating in the air near the 375-kilovolt transmission lines mounted just
arms-length beyond his bedroom window. Such buzzes always seemed to throw him for loops;
their call well beyond his meager ability to resist.
As the flow of benzene swirled around his feet, a horde of cockroaches sat quietly in
the alleyway playing poker. They ignored him. He paused to confirm that he still
recalled how to properly brown hamburger in a skillet. An indigo aura hung over his
biopsied liver. He wasn't sure why it was lying here in the alley, but it sure seemed to
make the amoeba culture thriving on it mighty happy.
But then... Pretty much nothing fazes this guy.
NOTE: This poem had better not make any sense to you. Back to poetry index…