Lawn Sofa

Unknown, unwelcome guests parade the house peripheral pharmaceutical crushing leaning towards countertop-labradorite-esque scars with ferns overhanging under bare fluorescent bulbs, where I fear for osmotic absorption — should I not feel fear for cubistic fluorite landscapes here, from underneath this alien dust?

Flushing proves useless as guests self-replicate — so I pull the plug and announce no more music: at least half of everyone here has to go.

Nothing short of minions retaliate, reliant on my outdated records, which curl up off their spinning platforms, nonimmune to glaring stares.

Fortunately, then evicted.

Sofas on the lawn.

[Charles has been writing since 1987. Currently he’s completing training to become a medical transcriptionist and is also involved in electronic music. Look for him, as DJ Silence, at Mela, Bobo, and other local venues.]

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