Summer fling with a beautiful woman-- talking 'til dawn, borrowed kisses, park benches, holding hands. This mustn't last long, says the beautiful woman. We cannot go on, says the beautiful woman. It's terribly wrong, says the beautiful woman. My man's coming home, says the beautiful woman, and there's a good chance that he won't understand.
It's weird, you know, to feel so close. How does this make any sense? We've only met just now, and yet, the conversation's immense. We talk and talk and talk some more, I never get tired, you never get bored. Two hours go by, then three, then four. It never feels like fulfilling a chore. I'll be sad when it's in the past tense.
Plant a pickle, grow a pickle, take a pickle, owe a pickle. Eat a pickle, slurp a pickle, smoke a pickle, blow a pickle. * Slice a pickle on the table with a scalpel, surgeon's practice. Put a pickle in a pot of sandy soil, prickless cactus. Whisper secrets to a pickle, cold and green and wetly glistening. Pickle doesn't care what you said, not so very good at listening. * - This line is sex euphemisms, and I think that's very funny.
Two monkeys dance a wild tango 'round the jungle, hither yon, together faster than they can go alone through the Amazon. They crash right through some prickly bushes, gallup off a precipice. Sprawling, falling, cold wind rushes in their ears, all hope is gone. They should have looked where they were going, but the monkeys won't be missed.
I sit here eating a burrito, wondering why it looks pink. My stomach churns, I feel uneasy. Suddenly extremely queasy, I barely make it, not so easy, to throw it all up in the sink.