The Bicycle Mechanic's Wife

A gold hand lifts his kilt beyond the bounds of decency and over the heads of mice too young to know better. The fire is beginning to fire my underpants in a crucible of over-extended paralytic cascade. All of the insignificance in the world couldn't compete with the bicycle mechanic's wife. Her turban began to unwind alluringly and settle around the thin stalks of celery she grew in the place of legs. Falling bats replaced the folds of skin she customarily kept in her melancholic bread box replica. The original had, years ago, been sequestered away in The Cave of Fool's Misconceptions and Degenerating Balloon Animals.

- "turn text" by W.A.Davison, S.Higgins, G.Scharpen, June 15 and 16, 2006