Elemental, my
Dear Bastards Elemental as spawn But this tadpole is ours- a faceless sibling in the crowd. Wiggles sizzle and widen well-worn curves with tail-tickling ardor beyond temptation. Oh, desired, conspired hard-beating blastula. What shall we feed you? Machinations? Damsel plums or virile kiwis? Mystery produce picked and ready for market. Stuff we feed the fallen not far from the tree. Thick-skinned muskmelons. Blood oranges, secret milkshakes and sweet permission pie. Grow, precious, grow! Sweetpeas to the sky. Like begets like, sometimes alas, and the sins of the fathers (and lusty lasses) are visited unto seven generations on the spawn until some chemical, spiritual abracadabra has mercy and dissolves the evil gene. The dawn of dignity on the doorstep. Hail the frog with the obscenely long tongue. It caught a fly! I don't even pray for this since I only pray desperate. It's more sincere that way. No need to be a kiss ass or hump the legs of the gods. They're turning tricks with no guilt and laughing as we pave the psychic highway with both quaint and desperate wishes. We do their dishes. In the name of the huge Thanksgiving
turkey-sized platter, the unrepentant sunflower Y Damsel Plum is Co-founder and Publications Chair of Bastard Nation. She lives in Northern California with her husband, sons, extremely large dog, rabbit and fish. (This feature first appeared in the Fall 1999 issue of the Bastard Quarterly.) Copyright 1999 Bastard
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