Daddy’s Cold Time by Alex S. Johnson

                        Image Copyright © Sarah Mulcahy-King

My feeling was that the waitress had absolutely to be investigated, since her smile suggested death. Daddy’s arms played over my cold time in hospitals. Was I to ride his mistakes, hear him down crème after crème, focused on error? He suddenly finished in front of my thighs. I drink to him, as he is frequently discouraged, peer at my new birth certificate and can believe what he suggested about my overbite, princess that I am. When I say princess, I mean the stranger question of the bullet, throughout pursued and performed as in 1955. The infarction quickly now continues, it could in ways even the unlearned study.

He spread the instructions. I came to Daddy from the doctor, with a broke can of matching lace, racing a heart full of carbonara huff. When between panties my relatives crossed me, upset the licking, they are now adherents. But please, stay tight! The seriousness brushes a voice diagnostic, that ratio of dessert plate to panties being incorrect. Hospitals thought closing were the way she stopped the diagnostic study of my princess heart. Because the materials of a moan had medical value, we are united. You within earshot are now mad, scouring the apartment for signs of consent. Passing autopsies, a number of them, were carried out before our eyes. He did enjoy the loud sound resulting from body moves, only another was pulling.

But waitress, first we must discover whether upset religions are not yourself. A table pouted brat autopsies, while all love the ice tongue of a delicious meta word. You leave among perforations, a processed attack, diseases in clit that rapidly number him. He never made death unremarkable Daddy's most roasted sat, just eyes laughing, a deep suit, black legs sucking bratty conditions. Was the tongue actually my non-Daddy diagnosis revealed? What brat ascribed his decreased medical lessons to the princess physically being in steak, my biopsy considered? Western study of autopsies focused on the unnatural, amazing bra mouth. The Examiner forget, autopsy dinner as murder, not legal poison. Mean eyes as genuine as down are the nicest findings of talked ice death. Autopsies performed flashed performing brûlée.

Alex S. Johnson's experimental prose and poetry has appeared in venues such as the Cut-Up! anthology. He is the publisher of the anthology The Junk Merchants: A Literary Tribute to William S. Burroughs, edited by Dean M. Drinkel, which was lauded by WSB collaborator Graham Masterton ("the Bill has been paid, in full.") His full-length poetry collection Skull Vinyl and many other works are now available in print and Kindle from amazon.com. Johnson lives in Central California.