4 Jan 2008

Loplop=Satan, My Big Fat Ass

a lavender helium balloon wafted in front of Penelope's languid, completely unstartled gaze. as she inhaled on her obsidian blunt chiming in the winds of the northernmost spheres of chanting blues, the emaciated dancers dropped swiftly, submissively to their lines of reproach and began trading pieces of their ribs and ankles with members of the audience.

Loplop was there in 1939, doing the whole French cabaret scene, when the stormtroopers effaced the national lines and seized control of every helium balloon in the region. denounced as pure, unmitigated blasphemy by the papal authorities, these untamed carriers of bestial subversion were known to drop thousands of black and white photographs of nude, lactating peasant women throughout the crumbling city-scapes. hormone-frenzied kittens collected and traded them in the darkened back alleyways and elevator shafts of largely unoccupied condominiums.

Loplop remained fastidiously unimpressed, dour even. his genitalia were known to frolic with the entire galaxy, and his proclivity for cosmic penetration was already legendary in some circles. star-fucker, indeed!

twice he had been dragged out of bed in the jagged peaks of truculent, totalitarian kitchen-knives, his neurochemical tracings licked at by the bright flames of reason denied. his spirit never wavered, though. he merely became more denuded psychically as the flashing image of Uri Geller staring a bald eagle in the eye for eons without flinching became a regular eidetic companion for him.

Penelope's media image was deteriorating rapidly. she had not managed to secure the designated black spot from the supermarket aisle directly opposite Walt Whitman's tomb. enraptured by the thought of worms stealing his words, she had forced herself to stand on guard beside the dead bard for three weeks straight, running her graceful fingers through what was left of his beard...just to be certain.

she had bent over once to verbally chastise stray insects who dared stray too close. the Great Man had arisen suddenly, then, laughing and jeering lasciviously while pointing a skeletal finger at her exposed panties and jutting mounds of buttock-flesh in front of the eyes he no longer enjoyed the use of.

Loplop flinched jealously upon hearing this lusty and morbid tale. he fingered his revolver, but then he thought it might be more convenient to arouse her with the pure unfettered aromatic power of magnolia wine. so he sat completely still, staring into the flames of the media spectacle magnetized and manifest, he wished for nothing more than to be inoculated against desire, a Buddha balloon hellacious flower.

a truculent sapphire, peanut-butter wolf,
mirrored forever.

Loplop delivers, a half-hour or it's free. Penelope was helpless in the face of his tender lappings behind her eyeballs.

and under the rubric of their horned umbrellas, they both wished they could trade their mole-hills for mountains eons ago, that this might go on forever, breathless Tantric communions, noble-warriors of reptilian-brained saliva, sex, and neurochemical insurgency. fuck yeah!

7 comments:

Lazare said...

love lop lop

Aaron Held said...

nice ending, Loplop was quite interesting.

cocaine jesus said...

A class.

murmurists said...

Great piece.

Robert said...

thanks so much to all of you!

kek-w said...

Robert - you sinister evil genius - I love it! Lop Lop rules!

David Setchell said...

this the most beautiful array[] i have ever read

faced balloon sisters. pressing
into storefront glass.

identical . lace
one . pink
too . blue
drinking in the bend they make, in unison, at the waist.