Tom Arnone

I really did place a plastic bubble
Resting on a rooftop of tar and trouble
Suffocating the air from a pink, perfumed bug
In agony over that final hug
...

I cannot help but beg you,
Remove that techno-chair
From your pasted, flab-induction limbs.
Taste some heat and sunshine and
...

It's tough when father's head is cracked open.
Mother says, 'You and I were chosen.'
Secrets spill out like a spritzing soda.
My head is warm with that smoldering odor.
...

Black valentines blot the sky,
A clinging soot that breaths a sigh
Into that rarefied, misty region,
Where trust is often given freely.
...

Retro thrusters, smokey hot,
Thunder in the dim of night.
Sprouting things all green and broke,
Mutant brains are taking flight.
...

Such strange fat fireflies so early in the month of Beltane, pondered Angela, as she watched their ephemeral light brighten then fade. Was she ken to a mutation from some radioactive mist or super acidic rain? Or, more simply, a mischievous neuron in her prodigal imagination played.

It was kind of scary, she thought, for how unspeakable would they become by summer? Angela waved her arms chaotically, hoping to obfuscate their sense of direction. Running home, she collapsed on the toilet and performed a thorough lavation to refresh and calm herself - whilst a single, stealthy flyer wangled and buried it's exoskeleton deep within her shorts, without suspect or detection.
...

And she smells good without keeping all...

Beef, sitting lonely on that lies floating on the tufted floor. 'Surely, ' I was napping, cold noodles, I implore!
...