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Shrimp: My Mind.

Covered in bites.  There are spiders on the floor.  I could vacuum.  I could clean my desk.  It hasn't been done since 1994.  My floor, my desk, like my mind these days: Dirty.

From the deep dark lake of my mind, at dusk, the Portugese in a line haul on the ropes, which as they rise from the depths of the lake coil around a log.  I can see the bubbles.  The bubbles like thoughts from the sludge way down below.  And what is it that the men seek?  What keeps their daily needs?  Its shrimp their after:  Butt-ugly shrimp.  The toilers of the deep.  The poop eaters.  

"Yum a rum dum dum, eh Mavis?  How about this poop?"
"We'll I'll say, it's the best goddamned poop I ever at.  And have you tried the trouts poop?"

"Well no I haven't not quite yet, I'm saving the best for last."
"Yes yes, of course, I just don't have the will power for such things.  You do, though, of course, I can tell by your figure.  Your legs look miraculous!"
"They do, don't they, I've been crawling around like MAD!, Mavis, you should see me sometimes, I think it's the snappers poop that does it."
"I bet...  Well, hey listen, I've got some eating to do, I'll see you around."
"O.K., Mavis, keep it real!"  

Beady little eyes.  Shitty, slobbering mouthes.

And here comes the night.  Here comes the darkness.  


JMH said...

Neat. Awful.

John Dantzer said...

Thanks. But maybe not awful enough.