A Toe on Fire.

Invasion of the body snatchers, her lip would pout, Wittgensteon, a mispelling, now in Venice where the tattoo was drying, He took a lithop bloom and carefully inserted it into a dolma body practicing emanations, the waves of lions, the young aristocats, or objects to be taken over, the smell of dentist in its misspelling, Lou Reed and Leonard Nimoy transposed under Harlan Ellison's glasses, a sort of glass bulb in which a dolma would live, the index finger turning blue, beef steaks cut into Times New Roman, Jeff Glodblum would pretend to cigar with poppy in its end, while Brooke Adams would dress up the little Gomez doll's mispelling, carrying forth its catalogue, the sudden move to the flexible lamp, the thing police wielding shag, the owl macrame', Bertrand Du Gueslin (constable of France) standing near Sir John De Grailly, Donald Sutherland now changed into a Greek Dolmathe wearing flower headband meeting with GG Allin to become the parents of a large yaprak dolma, Brooke Adams inside a circular enclosure of rotisserie meats made of various cuts of Times New Roman beef, her lip would pout, the laptop would play John Carpenter's THING, legs growing from dolmade', a spider kiss from a mispelling of dentist's basic being, the husband now rolled up like a cigar, his penis decorated with Vulcan ears, Joss Ghoulbone nomore of Venice, taking up silk in bundles as it cascaded down the stares of the transformed, the smell of the transformed, dolmathe', Yoni Dolmathis, whose alien station wagon was made out of two enormous lithops whose lips held a cigar of poppy petals, Brooke Adams dressed as a Roman Legionnaire, as a Legionnaire parasite beetle inside a cocoon-like building with Hannibal Coons while he "takes tattoo" from a man with arms and legs of dolma, whose flower head voice sounds like a cross between Sutherland and Nimrod, the Wizard of Oz suddenly appearing as the green man, as a green gold GG Allin, as the Green Knight, a huge sticky green bud, that Sherlock Holmes stuffs as Donald Sutherland into a glossy tan calabash, Watson is Brooke Adams carrying little dolma clones of Gomez in her hunting pockets, the G-Day Invasion, when thousands of Greek Troops in traditional pleated skirt stormed Norman with raging dolmas admitting misspelling, Grreen kisses, Hershey Soylents, Yul Brennar with massive horns, a kind of bull-man in a golden floored labyrinth of Munchkins, and me, not bothering to market or sell any kind of literature according to the pre-established methods, Ellison angry, wife going to dentist, mind cratering, smoldering, snatched away by the dark forces of nature, Hannibal Coons trying on my purple underwear, fingering my toy soldiers, Watson, now the green woman of Star Trek lays sleeping in the Saharan Prawn Balloon while Jeff Goldblum as Sherlock eats an enormous dolma of jellied raccoon prawns wearing a long wig of interconnecting calabash pipe analogues, the balloon now green, a sticky green zeppelin entering the funnel cone web of the Hobo Knight Spy, Der Dolmagrunen, just as an enormous 40 foot tall porcelain statue of Donald Sutherland as Casanova rises from a bay of cloned Fellini troops in legionnaire garb, garbling anything at will, mispelling their dual matters, their dolorous mutchas, Gomez dressed as Aeschylus wearing a bandelero of steaming dolmas each with its own lithop toe and dust-squirting flower.