[also in this form: The Bed Fluff]
Dedicated to triggers
That’s not my situation;
I don’t like those bed sheets; and I try hard to stay climbed what ever that means;
Into the left side of the bed;
It’s not whet; and I think this is a sure fire sign that I will on day one be Whet; uh, I mean wed.
That to me seems like a dangerous gray cloud.
Look; lolly we could die that-a way: oh we must be in a different Time. That-a way.
I know the Mountana mountain was gray at the top ; and wen we got there we weren’t really sure; if it waah was on a cloud we had finally landed; and if so,
Do you think the cloud would like to be landed.
The sheets were blue and had silver lines; it was so obvious to me; that even among all the molestations and rapes; other peoples: oh peepholes, the animals too; not mine of course; this was art.
When I said that at the department store; with my bend and trigger; they all gauked and I thought of the plaster walls in the bathroom; and of course not bend and trigger;s ; who gauked back and this was called art;
That’s what I said:
This is art!
Of course I owned the department store; so there was nothing I could do; I mean there was nothing they could do;
Except pretend that I didn’t.
The next day a kid in my neighborhood; like a spoon and knife; went to the department store; without a rid; nobody knew how he got there; that’s the w/out rid. And bought bright magenta sheets; I hadn’t designed them completely; but like a moon my cousin had.
That’s called were-wolf.
That’s the beginning of the story;
In my back are arcs with of cream yellow splinters and tipped with red surfaces; like a snow’s peak.
On a gray cloud,
Would you want that for yourself gray cloud.