WHEN OPPOSABLE THUMBS JUST CAN’T FORCE YOUR MIDDLE FINGER TO ABSTAIN FROM FLIPPING OUT, THEY MIGHT JUST BE APPEASING THE PEAS IN YOUR PINCER’S POSE.

Some seers in the far, far past postulated that fingers had been concocted to write when wildly wrung.

The concept of stroking simian similar souls or fetching foreign affection was, at that point, stricken from the scrolled gazettes and kept from our curious eyes and ears in gilt garrotes. Sublimation, then, was no other than a décolletage to whip up the smell sense while decoying vision from comprehending how a turd might easily become a fart in a fetter of thecodonts.

Writing has been – we wall know – wrought to writhe, wail, wile, wive and prove prose corrosively alive.

At the end of the day, it all depends, of course, on where and what you browse, and on which tongue your lee log lisps with.

 

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About Bernardo Bolt Gregori

Bernardo Bolt Gregori is a poet who has recently moved to the countryside where he is ecstatic to learn from the birds and squirrels and bushes various abstract and obstupefactive ways of dwelling and swelling as a human. A solipsist serendipitist more concerned with his better half than his worst multiple, he’s a hundred per cent one third fleece, one third shears, and one third sweater. Publications? Tuesday Shorts, Flashshot, Daily Love, 3am Brazil, among many others. BLOGS: bernardoboltgregori.wordpress.com bernardoboltgregori2.wordpress.com
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2 Responses to WHEN OPPOSABLE THUMBS JUST CAN’T FORCE YOUR MIDDLE FINGER TO ABSTAIN FROM FLIPPING OUT, THEY MIGHT JUST BE APPEASING THE PEAS IN YOUR PINCER’S POSE.

  1. David Woodruff says:

    Wonderful use of language and alliteration!

  2. Paul Murray says:

    Soft Boild Rant: There may be mornings, overcast mornings, when my wife and I place together our respective thumbtips (if properly trimmed), then, to lay on top of them, our forefingers and press. Then left digits go against right digits, look through the tiny holes while humming, “All the Diamonds In This World”, and we imagine what’s on the other side of the cloud cover – besides any feathered canyons anywhere… things that have gone away, gone awry, why aren’t real school children being taught about the real Darth Vader who owns FoxNews and all of the rest of US Media thanks to Ronald Reagan & Bill Clinton? But not today.

    Today began with Van Dyke Parks playing Donovan’s “Color’s” just as a fairy’s brace & bit bore tazzled hole in the clouds long enough for us to eat our soft boiled eggs and long enough for us to spot David Woodruff flying through the air, somersaults, arms extended out far above us. Yes!

    Then my elbows dropped, the clouds parted, my anti-depressants are no longer working, and the nurse is being a bitch and I elbow my coffee cup to the patio by accident. And my wife reads my moods in my eyes. I can’t write. She stands, walks behind me, places her hands on my shoulders gently and rubs. She whispers, “Monday should change things. Your doctor will be back in town, your son is flying in from Chicago. Monday, things will change.”

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