Sally, then, was that gangrenous type of
golden girl, who could never let a toy alone
to stew in its own frozen juices.
Constantly, in stolen vindication of her wild erotic fantasies,
she would float, james, above the treetops
with her cleverly devised, but secret,
burdened bloated balloon device.

james, to turn the crooked phrase,
was the type of toy who,
in peaceful, drawn out bliss,
could only fathom destruction on tuesdays,
having, in all fairness, been a sunday's child and a monday's son.

Now Sally let go her three pronged bloated balloon motion direction controller
and took off for the river to take a swim,
leaving poor james sitting high and dry
in the tightly wrapped patent leather harness attached to Sally's balloon device.

Screaming for all his toy lungs could tolerate,
james began his deadly descent to the mud meadows below
to which his airborne adventures had delivered him.

Sally, meanwhile,
had stripped to bare flesh
and lowered herself into the Green, slime-shackled, Marry-You-Anna River
to explore to the fullest extent her newfound, slippery, viscous, water-some world.

these two characters, whom we observe,
from our nose-bloodly lofty perch upon the very highest point of the horizon,
are performing their delicate dance, in darkness to themselves, together,
and are approaching their, perhaps final, corrupting, deadening, climax,
in two lengthy, separate, measured strides.

who are these two mystery creatures that leap out upon us from the screen,
but themselves?

Contriving, dialing from within, their secret pleasures,
the numbers they memorize in their phosphor filled image-creation modules.

In frozen time, we watch,
as to their united climax and termination they separately come.

And yearn for the strength to change.

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