Burnt Fly Blog

Ode to the slow moving sad sacks

They are peering, slowly, at his pant holes
dragging a legless torso
across a slow train's floor stain
I am waiting for the smells to, slowly, make a pass at me
I'll kiss them, later, goodbye, into the next stop,
Change is cliché, quarters now bounce off Jesus' cardboard throne
What of the hyper nannies,
and slow burning nuclear physicists with all those heavy bags?
the shaved asexual run of the mill nun,
and her lover, the Buddhist monk midget, sluggishly praying in curtains?
And that gorgeous model of the week, with the hot pussy sit slit look,
whose space ipod discharges her from taking in man-haty-tan
from a more scenic nook
Like you all never saw a torpid crass knee-less ass before?
How mad like areth we? how gone godless areth thee?
I wonder what his legs are up to?
running, quickly, with garbage foxes
under ghost leg tracks
escaping rats and broken glad bags
with break glancing speed
in a matter of tact
wrapping rigormortis thighs
around strap hanger hags
not so easy, too slowly to slide past