cobalt

A sunny sham crackle day. Relatively cracky and fucky true.
Dastardly gangly rectory via the chapel, sweating oak.
The ushers, black belted penguin flexed nursemaids,
escort all guests to their death seats, rattling, rattling, waddling, flapped.
A geological poop madonna screeches a high tone viper madrigal in the loft. Humans file
into predetermined slots, reflecting pink copper fleshy wedding coins.
Heads or tails, balls to ass, which sheer vixen do

you want to bust the most? Hold. The unbalanced, distraught, mother of the bride
is last to be seated. One moment please. The wastepaper bat ushers,
flap off to regroup in a cave corner. The signal that the ceremony is about to begin.

BONG! Proteus is late but prongs into place amongst the shingles.
Heavy battleship doors snail open, ominously to reveal the RED ANAL BRIDE,
who pauses at the threshold for a prompt photo opportunity, and then,
clomps down the aisle in a furious gallop of irritated space.

Aunt ANUS bites her lip at the sight of the red rashy ANAL BRIDE,
choking back anesthetic tears of apprehension and fear. There, there now, lady,
the little RED ANAL BRIDE you knew as a young girl is now a woman, a woman who
loves and licks and screams and kicks and opens wide, who wants to get
it in the ass, the RED ANAL BRIDE,
niece to your candycream dream of scrap paper and fuzz.

Meanwhile, during the march, Im looking out into the crowd, and ducks play trumpets,
and every sweating woman in every sweating pew becomes fair game for taste test. QUACK QUACK!!!

Then, without warning, Im dramatically shifted to the Sun Supreme Bleach Moment:
Waking in the morning, groggy, and turning to my sleeping wife.
Nudging her awake. Making love to her in Sun Bleach;
shes clinging to me, letting go. The tender sweat drying on her satiny skin.
Salt. Bleach. Trembling, sold, were shining in the center of the suneye.