The Mowing Of Life

Oh the shear essence of life is much like the mortars of love sliding into a cannon to be fire across the horizon to the bunker of your heart. It's an explosive firework with many colors and sounds. As you enjoy the warm slow succulent bites on your $3 dollar corn dog and sip your vodka spiked slushy slush, the night becomes a glow of phosphorous neon enlightenment; a new found knowledge beyond any reason but to procreate with the large bosomed woman laying next to you on a shag blanket spread out upon the freshly cut grass. Grass, cut and shaped by the sweaty grime ridden groundsman Louis, who toils with his mower and clippers like a frustrated artist trying to capture feeling with a cheap set of water colors. This frustration will continue until both of your deaths, haunting each day, but like Louis you will continue to mow. For the moment is now, and no blade of grass, no matter how tall, will stand in the way of possessing a few unbridled caresses with the voluptuous vixen. She is a radiant beast.

Sensing you need more than your smile and fireworks, you will haul back another slug of your sober sinking slushy and begin to bamboozle your way to turf damaging ecstasy. In the morning, Louis will cry at the beauty of you work. The flattened dead blades of grass capturing life far better than any weed whacker or chemical fertilizer. Inspired, he will drop to the ground an try to create a grass angel. This image will then be discovered by two sisters who will mistake it for The Virgin Mary and then will declare it a miracle. Hundreds of people will come from all around the local area to see the grass angel. People will be healed and their faith will be rekindled. On your way to work, you will pass by the congregation of believers and mistake them for mourners. Wondering about your own death, you will step off of the curb without looking and be hit by a bike messenger delivering a signed declaration from a local priest declaring the miracle a hoax. The vixen will attend your funeral, unaware that she carries your child. You will be buried. The grass will grow greener.

Posted by Monkeyspit at July 30, 2003 1:23 PM

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