Locust 1957

scalding hot locust licks and burrows into the soft cheeks of an oasis,
whilst you're scantly-clad-ex-wife is lost somewhere in 1957,
and her current technology can't translate you're postcards.
hissing locust comes to the cooldown of all cooldowns,
his secretary suggests avoiding the gorgons today as their in heat.
"well, it is a fucking desert, jah?" the locust replies.
the secretary politely nods, secretly full of grief that he'll never secrete.
albeit tonight the secretary secretly secretes all over his feet,
thinking of his dear old boss, the locust, being made a feast by the
gorgons in heat.

palm trees on all fours, who was ever any good at maths, the moths?
sprawled on a carpet, belly aching, one last slap of a young boy's
slipper sends his children sprawling out, and the two old well dressed
skeletons (or bony wizards, REALLY bony) together in the rocking chair,
in twin blue and gold gowns,
they beckon the child for the last time, that space of old hallway between
the child and the skeletons, littered with swelling moths. what year is it?
the secretary wakes up.

"I'm afraid the surgeon's done everything he can, we simply cannot penetrate
that year, sire. the... wife is lost. she's probably very happy sire. i suggest the
gorgons may have an alternative for at least the next 28 days sir locust, but
its dangerous, and our last ride home is tomorrow. sleepy dungeon tit's within
which witches slit-wrist shifty bliss at your service, sponsored
by aromatic piss drips. apologies sire, there appears to be a glitch, you see i had
a dream last night, and im not sure if my model is supposed to do that. regardless,
it went without a hitch, and depending on how many sips you take of that oasis,
you should be right as rain to make the journey to the ditch. of course, i do mean
ride, sire." said the secretary.

the locust twitched, as the last of his impulses ceased. nearing rigor mortis, the
one thing, we all share, apart from old secretary here. although it could also be
said he's always in a state of rigor mortis, clink clink. at any rate, he isn't jealous.