“Mrs. Depression”

There was an abstract projector playing in the background at the front of the banquet hall.

“I.O.U.”

She said that writers produce babies, while poets splatter the alleys with Pollock-like cum.

“Dennis Cooper”

Trying to kiss the ass of the transgressive god.

“Happy Meal”

He smelled like flatulence and french fries.

“Inspector Project”

Like when a gas-powered turd rockets into the water and shoots it up into you, just in time for your [housecat’s] sphincter to [wink at you] close and trap it so it can turn septic. Usually when an explosion of this magnitude happens, it’s common courtesy to say, “Fire in the hole.”

Afterward, he noticed that the conjoined rabbit turds in the toilet looked like the spinal column of some extinct Siamese beast.

“Nigerian Nightmare”

The leaves changed to the sound of a distant train’s horn, and brought to mind multiple choo-choo suicides.