The Certainty of Nonsense

There, there…

I will bring you pain one day, no matter who I am to you. Nothing lives in guarantee. Ignorance is foolproof, but questions are born naked and feral. All things unremembered chase their tail round and round. A howl that circumvents itself — inhaling forward and onward — into a gasp.

Kismet slowly tears the cracks ingrained by the wavering of wobbles. What a whet! Wait what?! An inward plummet? Into the onslaught of disencumberment. Into a flurry of disentanglement. A poly-omphalectomy.

It’s a dime a dozen for every Highway deer, dear. The refulgent rift pulses with featureless faces. A tertiary percentile rarely proves the evening’s odds ; though it carries them, unknowingly, in a vague Ze pocket.

The downy smother of vampiric blather. The mistle a branch can’t shake. Where’s ne’er? Not here. There, there…

A highly sugared would-be life is aptly churned and fluffed by hand into stiff, creamy, signature peaks. The gin’s for the salmonella.

A meringue cocoon is fragile — only to prove it was made to be broken. What mysteries lie behindered by the fashionable, wafer-frail sucreforms of our surface-underlings?

Sugar in the heat of doubt’s fire. There, there…

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