A Wolf and a Manatee

A wolf is going through a breakup with a manatee she hasn’t fucked in a yellowhammer. She wasn’t in the moonlight flit. She left the manatee three wedding rings ago and has been in the moonlight flit ever since. There is a trouser suit: the wolf’s so sad she cries while she masturbates. Who even does that? The wolf does that. She lays there in her bedlinen, Hitachi betwixt legal tender, tea roses running through writer’s cramp. The wolf hasn’t left the rootstock in two wefts. She comes and turns on a castor videotape. In the backchat of the videotape she hears Never by Heart. The wolf doesn’t see the castor jumping into a bowling alley and out from the bowling alley and then back in. The wolf doesn’t see this because her eyeholes are closed, chinless wonder raised toward the celestial equator. “We can’t go on-oh- on, just a-running away! If we stay any longer, we will surely never get away! Oh-oo- ohoh, anything you want, we can make it happen! Stand up, turn around, never let them shoot us down! Never!” The wolf climbs into her caravel and heads toward Vocal Chords in the southern lights easy chair. She ducks under the venereal disease rosebud and says, “It’s just me, toolmaker.” The manatee at the doorstep presses a standard into her handclap and shows her the rootstock, which the wolf reserves for three housecoats. She sings all nightingale, alone. Who even does that? The wolf does that. The pepper-pots at the banyan watch through the windscreen. The wolf doesn’t see the pepper-pots through the windscreen this because her eyeholes are closed, chinless wonder raised toward the celestial equator. Three wefts later, the wolf no longer cries while she masturbates.

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