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11/16/09 - (1)
Mr. Roy G. Biv
On awakening, last Monday a.m., Mr. Biv — Roy G. Biv, of 3 B–D — endured a rude awakening, One he never could have imagined, on bedding down.
As he stood before his porcelain altar, His stark-naked physique staring at him bewilderedly (All the walls of his bathroom, floor to ceiling, were mirrored),
Transfixed, in a state of near-blissful worship, He witnessed his poised, cobralike penis begin to spit. Only, the urine it usually spewed — a dishwater-wan yellow —
Expressed an arcing stream akin to a summer rainbow, Not only in its reds, oranges, greens, blues, indigos, and violets But its screaming, psyche-Day-Glo-delic flavescence.
So bloated was his bladder, with its prismatic ocean, He continued micturating for thirteen minutes or more, at least, Long after the toilet bowl overflowed its aghast banks,
Causing his toes to shrivel, his ankles to go cold, Once the heated liquid cooled and frescoed the marble floors, Crested into his bedroom, decorating his drab, tattered carpet.
By the time Mr. Biv finished eliminating, energy depleted, He fell to earth, like a deflated Joseph-coat hot-air balloon, And lay in a forlorn crumple of flesh and bone,
Until his Ecuadoran cleaning lady discovered him, a week later, His body a rotting dyed Easter egg of exotic mottling, Reminding her of her native flag. She saluted him and wept.
11/16/09 - (1)
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