- For breakfast, Nix eats-
- Whadduz Nix eat fuh / breakfast?
- Hooly hoops-
- Spaghetti loops & pitty bred
- peetie brid-
- peetie pit pit pit pit peeeeeeetie breeeeeaaaaad!!!!!!.
Rumbling ensues
Shady,
pitch-black exterior
of the ghostly,
shelled-out
husk-of-a-form.
It once found itself
encased in smooth
black glass
rounded
and set with
golden trim;
a soft cushion
encircled,
made of delicate,
platinum-stitched,
forest-green,
leather.
It wanted red.
It cruised,
impervious
to the death-inducing
yellow-haired
stares
of creeping,
manufactured
night-forms.
Din't owe nobody nuttin'
Spat a wicked fizz
of ectoplasmic
quips.
Something came from down on high to interrupt its daily luxury stroll through the night-time undead.
It rippled inwardly
and shuddered at the irony
that there might be another sixty-four years
before it hits that stroll once more.
It didn't matter where it left them,
there always seemed to be a stranger,
waiting sick,
beneath a spire,
ready with
a launching grip.
Nix was ill with sick-formed fancies,
Thund'rous bellows caved their way
into its mind for that mere shallow
break upon the serpent's twine.
Nix could see its distant freedom
hanging thread so loose, its sway,
dreams of death in coffee cups,
pill-box unions,
smoke-filled graves.
To glean this fortune,
Nix surmised,
ascend the pulpit
sans demise
and find arrayed
to its surprise
a treasure's trove
of soul-supplies.
They saw it before they heard it.
They seen it before they heared it.
We were never ready for Nix.
Descending roughly
with the decadence
of a smith's
liquid
ammunition.
Red gaze at the ready,
readied and redded.
DrEADening depths of fiend-like
whispy bits ripping
nine clips
from sixty shit-starved rays.
'Hey... Hey, you! Yeah. You. Read closely:
there
is
nothing
here,
but
string.'
And with that,
spiderwebbed frames
of sickly, shifting
flames
shamed
Nix
with experience,
and showered
holy
ghosts
into a funnel
of network
marketing
research.
Swallowed and glugged,
by Ms. Millie's
aquiform
lieutenant,
Nix,
living comfortably,
among cellular tubes,
pumping fiber optic cables,
and intravenous solutions,
made slave
to the coruscating sparkle
of rotating paradigms,
chasing,
forever,
the snake
which eats
its tail,
laughing,
recalcitrant,
under the watchful
glass
eyes
of
o
p
t
o
e
l
e
c
t
r
o
n
i
c
l e n s e s
p
r
o
t
r
u
d
i
n
g
f
r
o
m
b l a c k
a
p
e
r
t
u
r
e
s
.
About the Creator
Keenan Chiasson
"I want to burn with the spirit of the times. I want all servants of the stage to recogni[z]e their lofty destiny."
-Vsevolod Meyerhold
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