Following the loss of his right leg, the clothes-peg had nothing left to do but pierce the skin of the occasional bare toe. He shivered shameful rusting joy at every holler.
The gossiping plant has out-talked its pot. Its stories, all of them lies, are rootbound. Wound in circular knots until they’ve snarled into just one big frivolous fabrication.
The mug handle gripes without curves to grip onto. In its absence, fingers burn and a friend doesn’t take milk. Unbaked clay is lactose intolerant.
Such a self-serving place-mat. Narcissism is a crotchety weave in purple and brown. Pull a thread and it’s done, undone.
SANDERLINGS 