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The Neck Chronicles
Ostrich Soup

The slender long necks of a female ostrich twist and turn in the sunlight's rays;
prarie dogs scurry from the tips of palm trees to join their beauteous dance;
lobsters sing under the green blue sea while crocodiles bite down on the ostrich's neck;
alas, we see the competetive nature of the wild, how is your neck today?


(part I of the "neck" chronicles)


The Umbrellas Of Life:

the striped blue ribbon in the fathers pocket writhed and squirmed as an ancient malibu tortoise; a rainbow trout begins its spawning on the golden umbrellas of life; little men hide in envelopes as they float down the honey comb lakes of sweetness; alas, we see the competetive nature of the wild, how is your neck today?

(part II of the "neck" chronicles)

Shapely

A green cat walked by himself on the moon while a raging comet made a pyramid of alphabet soup crumble to dozens of "A"s; Alas tomatoes are made of fibrocartilage, and they spit at the rival bananas who intrude their homes. Friendship is like a frozen block of heat... in a small rhombus of safeness; My trapezoid friends are trapped in a world full of Edie's Diners. The devil lives inside of all calculators and in flower petals. Pepperidge farm goldfish swim through the atmosphere. Alas, we see the competetive nature of the wild. How is your neck today?

(part III of the "neck" chronicles)

Cockroach S'more:

a yellow ball bounces down the hall, as a willow sways in the still air.
A cockroach climbs up the stone cliff of doom and a marshmallow melts into nothingness over a covered fire.
A wolf cries to the sun as a wasp bites his ear and a cricket chips to the moon.
Alas, we see the competitiveness of the wild, how is your neck today?

(Part IV of the "neck" chronicles)

As relayed to Summer... the wonderful female, not season
Summer is a season, loved by all, but winter lovers...your name brings forth the desire to inhale the fumes of fireworks.
Laughter is surrounding me;
I must get help, simply because its summer; aaaaahhhh.
Alas, the cool days are gone forever until next winter.
The snow of the summer falls on your rosy toenails.
Summer....summer....summer..........

Garbage
Towel fibers catch on the ragweed on lions manes as a simple cloud of dust settles on the riverbed. Alas, the riverbed is smoking weed.
Small green pearls sparkle under transparent mud.
Young children celebrate for it is the Holy Day of the Garbage Man.
They scurry to their garbage can and leave special ceramic pastries for them.
Eat, fly.....live.

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