Not a Wynken, Not a Blynken; Just a Nod
Sup? I see you over there, confusion; with your amorph-ious blorph-ious, grey as a corpse-ious, subliminally imposition-ing, ugly-ass self. How you slipped in here, I don’t know. Why you’re even here, I don’t know. And how you’ll fit your totality into this tiny space, already filled to the brim with books and drums for dayzzz; again, I don’t know. But I don’t even give a shit that I don’t know jack shit ‘bout your intentional innards, or outards, or whatever the ard it is your substance possesses. I’m not your property. And I won’t reward your behavior with any significant attention. Eventually you’ll get bored and leave me be. Then I’ll clean up your residual slime, though I didn’t even cause it; and like-brand-new clarity will spritz itself from my bottle of Febreze, refreshing the stank you so graciously bestowed my personal space by your presence. Your kind, though weighty, are but triflin’ fools. Trifle away, bud. Trifle away.
Copyright Keli Birchfield 2016