19 Jun
Trickle Ticking Virginia’s Secret.
They forcast sleet. In your fantastical land where a Swiss Watch are smelt from honey butter metal keeps time no better than my humble sand filled hour-glass. I watch you trickle, ticking by. Tocking, clocking, hair red-streaked sun shattered squished epithelial metropolism. Melted and re-smelted. I wonder what the Angel of Death would return as? Hari Krishna. Maybe a sloth, I have much pondering to do.
I bought the mini series “Angels In America” on dvd. Set in the mid 80’s it is primarily strung together with a bare storyline like an amature porn of monologues overfilled with philosophy. I like it. It also has a hot effeminate african-american homosexual character, with glitter. It’s also ironically, founded on some of my current curiosities; Philosophy in general, Mormons and angel wings from the Victoria’s Secret lingerie catalogue. Also, there are angels with eight vaginas who copulate all day. (Hentai, anyone?) In any sense, the abrupt characters are worth the watching, and the profanities spewing from Al Pacino are juxtaposedly amusing and confronting. I laugh. I think it’s healthy, isn’t it?
I’ve been wondering too, why my butt is always cold. I once believed it was insulation. But I now wonder, walrus-i have phenomenal levels of fat insulation.. as do whales.. and whales are warm blooded. If I were to pet a walrus, would they be cold to touch? Are their butts cold, too? Perhaps it’s poor circulation. Maybe if I smack it…. do walrus-i smack themselves? I think were I to try it, coupled with laughing at swearing homosexuals orgasming with angels, I’d soon be committed. Ho-ho Hee-hee……I think it best remain cold and insulated. Yes.
-Salty Pea
Filed Under: Religion, Philosophy, personal, Rant, Poetry
