Broken Bones

Which craft is supposedly doggedly determined to undermine the effluent manners of pigs and dinosaurs and in so doing relegate the newspaper to puppy love all the while eating Rahoul at the stake. Churning and burning with hate and desire the mirror no longer serves it's master with taste and charm but instead longs for release. Escaping out into the dungeon can be called new-found freedom but where will the Butcher hide when it comes to performing duty and desire? What new offering will the natives ingest just to maintain status and quo, what new experiential delight will the chains of torment provide other than another serving of beef broccoli soup dipped in high fructose corn syrup and smothered in that sticky goo called disgust.

I have survived many such an encounter and though tales are few and far between nothing survived anyway to see the light of day because the sun has long since set. But it isn't even dark.

And so as I turn over in but another grave I find no rest for there are no weary. Did that surprise you?

Or perhaps the word-play brought new meaning with which to attach to those pesky wayward thoughts which just never seem to go away. Can broken bones be made whole? It's funny that it has absolutely nothing to do with that at all as the perspective is completely up-ended.

Don't worry. I made bread-pudding for the horse and castille soap for the chicken. I'm still debating about the goat even though the eagle takes the bait.

I wonder what the bear is doing in the woods.

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