The cabbages tremble in the long paradise of gravied stifled truth and are swallowed to the crunched midden of acid dark.
Gibbons are gay, truthful and halfmad. They cavort daily with their genitalia, like sucking Smith's crisps for their salt content, and rabble off to their seething fleshy dens to giggle at the rust on their bars which their dung will rot, savouring the knowledge of their ancestors in the rockcarved garbage snorting in the sea that the teeth of the walrus were all made into unicorns' phalli many thousands of years ago, long before Atlantis sank between the straits of cold and hot.
She bounced in the seaweed, flirty and conscious of the many tentacles whispering sight amongst the lonely grinning figureheads of tumbled history.
Mermaids live in eggs of scent and are ready to smell the scales of men in the drowned grabbings of a snivelling corpse, with his pinnacles piercing his long dead clothing, crabeyed and toenailless, dirty and mermaidful.
She swims like a fishskunk to the whirlpool and times the kerplonk of the hole, dives and enters him, deep into the ribs and stinking in the tickling parts of his itting torso.
She sees the sky through saucepan eyes, gasps, and in the seclusion of her weedridden mind she pockets the sixpence of fortune and runs madly through the heavy cloy of liquid dead. She breaks the groins of the rock man dropped, sank, drunk and drowned deep, and struggles to the shell of her mad ear, her hair making ghosts in her eyecorners as it flies in water swelling out and round like men's fingers clutching love or hoping to be with . . .