Category: Planetary Status Reports

I am the Burrito Master!

My power fork
with spork yoke
and broke-back grease
I will never cease
to bring you
the ground meat
from the seat
of the sweet treat
alabaster. 

I make these
slime tubes
for less than $2.99
and it's fine
because my girl
my woman spirit
grabbed the onion god
and her BOD
was HOT STYLE
picante type
ever after.

The flesh burden
it's hurtin'
and your own cost
to the boss
and the mayor
is too much
so the factory churns
and burns
with old Aunt Mabel
from the stable
to the abattoir
a craftier cheese. 

I can't stop wanting
that frothy wheel
after the meal
my teeth yellow and raw
stuck in my craw
the bone mantle
the grizzle
the muscle gird
and then the SOUP
from the poop pipe
one swipe
and it leaves
with ease.

I make burritos at midnight from the discards of Texas toast nightmares.

My WOMAN demands HOT POWER LIVER OINTMENT type burritos, for prices that make sense. I use the old meats, left at the CHEVRON in plastic cases and old dirty Jesuits.

I can make you a burrito for $2 ...

It's guide-sleaze and you smell the breeze to find that chugger-loot.

You'll scoot on down to the EMPORIUM and buy some gut-slab, then go to the razor-bakers and purchase that 50% asbestos flour for making fine style tortillas ...

JOOG-FLESH and pond-walnuts are the toppings, and these grow near the abandoned chemical plant ... the one where those nuns went missing 5 years ago ...

The whole thing takes no time to cook, using arc-welders and acids ...

For two bucks.

When we were young hunters?

Chasing the milk-sow and the journey-ass of S'compton?

OUR BURRITO MASTERY transcended the fecal pleasures of LORD CASTRO and the other incidental subway turds that girded their loins for tender metal flesh.

We'd add AVOCADO, but it was jungle paste and paint flakes.

We'd add lettuce ... but the lettuce was strumpet-skin and hairless dog lice ...

We'd ask for ICE in our soda, but our sodas were imaginary and our water was brown and real.

Our burritos were cheap and plentiful.

Our women were full of crabs.

BURRITO MAGIC?

That's what she called it, when she grabbed my nuts and shoved her free hand up my ass.

In a spastic clutch, we'd hutch over and share the mule offerings of mortality, as the anus bled and my balls turned blue.

After many minutes of pain, I'd shake it off and leave her happy-valley replete with cave gifts and gumbo-grease and milk-duds.

Many of the septic tank babies came by this way, filled with hopeful din and then dumped on the sidewalk for the creepers to feed on.

And all of this was for burritos.

But the doob freaks, the ones that eat brown-slick, they are the worst of the GERGEN-TORG wiggle farmers.

My third burrito wife?
We thought we'd mated for life.
A strife world,
bejeweled in vibrant tones,
and boned beef,
as she queefed,
leapt past the dome,
and then we could roam,
like nightmares,
at the county fair,
made for two,
a burrito wife for you.

For the heat? - we eat burritos made of saffron and bear-steak.

We spend the mornings hunting boar-salamander in the curry swamps, as Pajeet finishes his shift at the Country Inn.

In the evening, we wear bornet-gowns and douse ourselves in pigeon-whiskey and burn away our sorrows.

My last burrito was STORM-ICE and glazed hornet wings. We ate these damn things under a blazing orange and smoky sky, as the MIND-TIGERS told riddles and the fiddler calmed the crowds.

Ministers in torn clothes sing songs of coming days, and the haze breaks and beyond there is a DRAGON called BURRITO MASTERY 9000.

Women, forlorn by lost love, point their naughty fingers at the smoke and chant "he's woke, he's woke, he's not broke" - and the golden shower commences and the women slather themselves in goat urine.

So we say goodbye to our burrito nightmare.

goodbye