12/10/25
No, you're thinking of the other the commune
|  Glass Iby Danson Macrane   December 22, 2003 I once had a glass I
and in case you're reading this out loud to someone I feel the need to clarify. Not a glass eye as in an eyeball made of glass, a creepy hazel doodad staring frozen in impasse. Nor some tricky eye-sized marble clenched within your skull cavity, designed expressly by the glass man to mask your deformity. But rather an entire me made of glass. Hands, wrists and ass. All stunningly in proportion and accurate in mass. This is no lie, I'm loathe of jest. Merely something I felt an inkling to get finally off my chest. It was a sight to behold and a feeling to be holding, this pellucid Botticelli was like paradise unfolding. It was stunning in the sun and just as beauteous at night, when we did hit the town we were an ostentatious sight. I and I would dance beneath a chandelier of stars, striking hearts with envy like a pair of live Renoirs. Some would ask to cut in- but none could turn this trick. For to see me dance with another would surely cut me to the quick. I and I would dance as the others' envy-ridden eyes were reflected in the silky, glowing, luminous face of I's. And every night we'd go home for a rub-down and Windex bath. Such a propensity for showing fingerprints, no mere mortal hath. Like a glorious lucent ice swan who'd never melt into the punch, I was lucky to have I, and I knew as much. Which is why it stung a bitter sting -that shattering affair- I'll see it live in infamy, the night I was dropped down the stairs! Tumbling gracefully in a dive a sight I won't soon forget. Nor the sound as I hit the ground and exploded, I regret. T'was fate I guess Oh God the mess! My rancor it commands. And what's the worse to this day I curse my popcorn butter-coated hands! Quote of the Day“Immature poets imitate; mature poets steal. They have to, because let's face it—you're never going to support yourself as a fucking poet, cheech.”-B.S. Eliode Fortune 500 CookieExpect a big upturn in your finances when a bag of silver dollars dropped from a skyscraper nearly kills you. People flock to your show when The New York Times calls you "Stomp for people who wish Stomp would just fucking die already." The court case is decided this week and you now legally have bragging rights. Lucky meat substitutes: Soy, tofu, tofurkey, a McDonald's hamburger.Try again later. Top 5 commune Features This Week
 Lonely Cloud I wandered lonely as a cloud, it was Halloween and I had about sixty pounds of cotton glued to my leotards. And nobody wanted to trick or treat with a kid who was dressed up like a that. Needless to say, being seven sucked bad. The stars... (12/8/03) The Raccoon Killer On golden gilded lapis lazuli the gnome was homely, old and plain. Byzantine tattoos on his brain made him think the world insane. "Lichens liken to Vicodin dreams… rolled oats, old goats, matriarchs." A Chicano girl named Rosa Parks ... (11/24/03) Chase the Weasel All around the Crunchberry bowl the monkey chased the weasel. The monkey thought it was fuckin' funny until "POP!" goes the weasel! The fucking weasel exploded, I'm not kidding. It was fuckin' raunchy. Up and down the hallway stairs ... (11/10/03)            |
Reproduction in hole or in parts without permission is likely to piss off her dad big time.