The Zounds! of Bakersfield

“Egads! Odds bodkins! Goddamnit, dog, you’re too close to this thing!” opined the crooked cop to the poor little spirit of Suzanne Ruff, who’d been barking up the wrong tree since The Land Before Time. 

She refused to look him in the eyes, not so much because she was shy or psychotic, but mostly because they’d both been stung by a box full of bees, rendering him into the unsightly swollen face guy from Star Trek. 

This after the repeatedly punctured body of the post-cliché, underage, living dead Rob Zombie Dahlia girl was found by the Adidas-clad volunteers of the Heavens to Murgatroyd! morgue. 

Too much twisting of the poochie turned them into a suspicious kaleidoscope. 

Instead of coffee, the crop drank crude oil, which contributed to wind events. He tarred & feathered his opium-smoking algebra teacher, and never had a 9mm on his schism. But he believed in the buttermilk fairy tale of the Bakersfield schatten people. 

“You’re not a calculus freak on a peach leash,” externalized Vivian Lee, Suzanne’s altered negro. “You’re just a syballine Indian with a shamanistic witch doctor tradition.” 

Jason Waterfalls, a brachycephalus seal who drove a Toyota Plateau convertible into the desert/Plato’s Closet, disagreed. 

Ellas face was aghast, and looked like it had seen a ghost—or at least the Hindu footprints of a devil’s legend that had chased it. It was as totem poled of a pink eye as I had ever chainsawed.

Was the explosion nuclear? Bad aliens? 

La concert in the distance sounded like worship music. 

Ustedes was worried about predators, dreadlocks, and the youth. 

Sir we kicked our shoes up under Capt. ear pressure. That’s where the cartels enjoyed brainchildren kiosks surrounded by fresh caprese. 

*Paul Funyun had warped feet, but never went on tour. 

Prison system?

They created a meagerly Tears for Fears tulip bubble of unused Zion, funded in part by Bradley Hexagon. 

OD? Fuck me!

So quicksand started stalking them. And the asinine River next to the crime is hiding. But Polenta Indent isn’t kidding anymore. It scared the peyote out of its peculiar residents, and is searching for sriracha. 

Ever mise en scène a sunset? Staccato night vision did, and went southward into Crystal Valley for evil cotton fever wounds.

(Grow your supplies where the hills have eyes; amongst the ambient tombstones.)

{Nosotros vehicle emissions test laced with cow shit couldn’t hold a toe to Cesar Chavez or Charles Manson, but were inevitably blinded by Ra, and solved the case with a microscope.}

Dirty? No < yes!

Left between two sheets, a Mexican apple’s dream journal led the way. To a high-rise love story by Custard Queen. Which subjugated them to a book binding, and Zeus’s machine ending. 

[In the middle of heresy, you say, stay with me.] 

Eat red herring and wear an obelisk. This was the dying wish of Carlton Fisk. 

The failed elements of James and the Giant Zit hated French toast, and wore a trench coat. 

It glass passion sanitarium was in the same vein as green algae, but was only half-full, so it committed suicide. 

Paranoid?

Layne Staley summered in Langley, and put a pedophile ring on your untouchable fuckin’ finger. 

Rodney the King’s in danger! From unextraordinary old field hands. But it’s not your San Andreas fault. 

Horchata Watson went home because he wasn’t a creature come lately. 

The scarce crust was unknown to Jason, so he cracked a cake. The police blamed Halley, a comet, and cleaning powder. 

Poverty gets people really high, via the khat of cobra bravery, which produces an intermediary fool smog. 

But the shards of faith conflicted with the anarchy of an illegal health wraith. 

She unnatural offspring of Basho vegetables made a mad man out of caustic backbeats and haggard chemicals. The outlaw infection thought he was just having fun. 

Tú cornucopia of nu metal was baptized all over the table, and thought it had a panoramic horseshoe up its sequoia ass. 

They really got the life. 

Si, spaghetti-layered sales tax sprinkled onto ice cream was uncontrollably comfortable. 

Yo swamp schoolboy succeeded in breaking apart bad pariah. 

Vosotras pure scum succumbed to Interpol more than trash-masked plutonium ever could. 

He monstrous darkness. Shadow figure to be sure. 

Um bitter inner dialogue of Jack the Ripper was like a raging lab bull. 

El naive provocateur of porn and graphic diagrams bumbled the mustache of his flatmate’s parking garage. 

It settled for snuggled cigarettes. 

So Suzanne ran down the happy outskirts of the 2nd star’s Crypt Dick.