By John Klue
Logon was a boy with See-Through Skin. Logon’s veins were visible through his plastic pelt.
We can see Logon’s organs working 24 hours a day, It is always rather investing to see a mans blood be made. The lungs and liver, The Guts and gore, The Intestine large and small every innard labored so that this glass boy won’t fall. Logon had orange eyes and a keen sense of smell, he could rarely hear however because his ears were jelled.
Logon wore cargo shorts and played a lot in the lake, a jester should be jealous at all the merry Logon could make.
Logon was taller than the teacher, The teacher was 5foot 5.
Logon had a puppy that he christened her Bobbit because she castrated her last owner.
Logon’s puppy Bobbit was a Pomeranian she was fluffy and fiery and fun.
Logon and Bobbit were best buddy’s they would play the day away.
Until That one night on the fifth of May.
The spoons that scramble in the halls.
The cries echoing off the gallery walls.
A War is raging in the oriental kitchens.
A porcelain free for all.
The shattered ceramics and dented tableware in the night are reborn
And seek new affairs.
The Porcelain soldiers scoff at “Carrying Cuisine”
They regroup into regiments so to march of their enemies.
While you and your families are snug in rest
The Seto Taisho military thirsts for conquest.
But just like you or me the Taisho do not always agree
So they fight one another brother against brother.
A turf war ten times as gruesome as Tsushima.
The Dinning halls have been flooded and claimed by Admiral Kappu of the Gyokuro coalition.
The Pantry has been plundered by Generalissimo Hashi and his Rayu Raiders.
And the Anmitsu Armada has overrun the freezer under the orders of major general Kōri.
It is truly a dark time in the kitchen. 1:30 A.M.
Chinaware was not meant to shatter each other.
Because now I have to clean it up in the mourning.
Abigale was a southern girl with eyes on the backs of her hands. Her average eyes were sowed shut by a single silver thread. Some people felt sad for her, we assumed the thread was bad for her. But Abigale was a happy gal. A cheerful child with a ten thousand ruble smile. She loved the sun, she loved the snow, She Loved the Rain.
Abigale was raised on her Grandpop’s train. A silver steamer that shot through the countryside over an ocean of ironwood. Abigale loved the silver steamer that her grandpa conducted, she loved it before she knew how it was constructed. Abigale’s eyes saw the forest before the steam train. When the eyes showed Abigale what the train truly costs her heart sank because of what was lost.
Abigale still loved the sun, Abigale still loved the snow.
But Abigale could no longer love the rain.
The rain was water no longer.