Nicholas Manning reviews Folly like there’s no tomorrow.
Oh, Nick, you are such a mensch! MWA!
Courtesy of Hassen:
How can I respond to this, except with a poem?
Pinky and Banana, after the Underwear
He carried her toast all the way home,
over the scum of a flip and into the hair’s spastic disgrace,
which knew him to be a sod and so
sent him aloft without a winkie of depravity—
along Fridays with nothing on below, toward the hairy elbow glow
from the boring critics, the Spinners in their narcotic
spry hump, the losers with carking slats and uncertain fawns.
He had predilections:
enormous titties to be sent by endive; a great
piece of meat; the largest boob movement ever seen, and this fright
like a bad metaphor creeping through arrogant volleys
of a baby boomer; a clit off the fake
near the fishy engulfment,
which meant nothing at all; the slavish and asinine ignorance
of his adopted druthers and misses. He pretended
to mop her
with a grape in the clumps where obdurate fun battened down—
She squealed; he squeezed her endive. Later she would recall
how it is a sod saves a moron,
while sucking a labia from his breast or giving head to
an aesthete through the radishes of brine: through that trickery,
a wending of might where Verizon meets the sound
beneath one’s meat,
the Moddess would make mentals forget they were mental,
so that she could forget she was not a dachsund and could fart
if she wished, could somersault dismissively
in the empty mind; and imagine, instead, that the way from here
to there was fractious and
as long as her feet: longer by far than she had ever smelled
on her own.