Savior Beeman- An E-Chapbook

inspired by Unbearable Lightness by Tomáš Gabzdil Libertiny

curse of the beeman

for every buzzing troglydyte, there was another breadbasket monster growing out of the toaster oven in exchange for some bunny slippers laced with leather mold. and the man remembered that humanity was another version of a running bathroom sink and the toilet paper clog stuck inside a

woman's menstrual cycle. for they were all animate coffee grounds, biting wallpaper with their bitter fangs and lamenting the broken stages of the moon. the celestial bodies had already started hanging down and rough desert sand split their skin from their knees and cast the odd bits into the churning bedroom water. he and his scarlet self could not be separated from the banana peel and rind. they came together with a sewing needle and split apart with the madam's illustrious crowbar, that of the undergarment removal variety.

curse of the red hands

for the man had scarlet fever growing like fungus on his bitter fingernails. there were vegetation bits beneath his fingernails. none of it felt good but he enjoyed the pleasantries of a slow burn against his will. so he bit the breast looking things that got close to his lips. puckered nipples. vegetative undergrowth of the mons pubis and its penile counterpart. all the men were gone for many days. they said it was not their fault that the moon was quartered and then split again. they found her body in the apple gallows. She thought it was an orchard and offered herself up to the fermentation of all those pollinating bodies. they pulsed beneath his unlucky veins. his arteries were stinging cells. he was the humanoid hydra. someone called his names and he let those lightning bolt sensors fly free of the strawberry jam and raspberry syrup.

curse of the honey combs

should they have been dyed to a red velvet consistency? anal batter. let it bake and flop and rise. the children want to decorate the outsides with their nasal frosting. the bees know better than to eat fast food right from the flower's source. so they cook it in sulfur high temperatures until the bodies simply break down. snap the stinger from the ass and toss them both aside. it's all for the cracking sound. so says the hive savior, floating above the line of bees. honey gurgles in its mouth. the bees fly in and out of the throat, collecting their little aphid monsters and biting the heads off. off with the heads? or the stingers? the bees barely stand straight. they get drunk off the royal secretions. all the little things that leave them infertile. so they can't have their own dynasties. so they hide in the coffee pot and wait to drown in the boiling cauldron. cocoa beans harvested straight from the feline's rectum.

curse of the nectar

every man with his vociferous hands should feel the nectar pour from capped fingernails. alas, this queen has emptied her loins into the sewing glass and drinks the little bits contained in the old man's vise grip. he cries for the last moonlights impaled by pollinous mountain peaks turned into tight hives. for there was an ovarian cyst in all those glasses of aphid juice and the feminine mounds burst, spewing the noxious blood into the honey combs. every paranoid bee shuddered from the smell. every challenged bee polished the phallic stinger and charged. a sugar pot studded with the insect bodies. let the wasps in to feast from the smorgasbord. they hunger for the meaty shells and the royal wares kept in the wax hollows. bees were boiled lobsters with the scarlet colored legs and everyone wanted to dip the muscle into the honey butter.

curse of the suspension

the body hung. from wires or hangers or glue or strings. the body stood suspended and shuddered when the face started to change. old bodies fell like tomatoes from the sky. they shattered and became solid concrete. red earth. but not the mars variety. the figure couldn't breathe any longer. it screamed but the sound was mute. oh xylophone. oh tuba. all those instruments fit beneath the wax tongue and melted. then the savior had brass teeth and could sing five thousand scale variations. artistic derivation of the melodic sort. bees wiped their poisonous asses over the concave cheeks and painted the skin. the bones peeled off the flesh. they turned into marrow spouts and wet the glass sides. fat leaked out with a metallic shudder. it ground against itself. it sputtered and sparked. The bone severed and splintered and broke.

curse of the dye

this dye spread. it was like melted butter. it filled toast holes and came out the crust ends. religious men drank it up and felt their arteries clogging. when cut open, they tasted delicious. like peanut butter. like pineapple. they ate off the floors and sobbed from their nostrils. they were feminine products, stuffed with cream cheese and hot peppers. their wax figures burned. these were sacrilegious fat pies. someone burned them at the altar and waited for the higher deities to descend with their stingers still attached. they had barbed throats and ribbed tails. twice a day, they milked the points until the thick jelly sauce came out the tip. it was not pleasurable. they cried during the stroking. when they spasmed into the kitchen sink, the pipes clogged and backed up. all the green things came from the faucets and the yellow things scurried through the drains. they mated and turned red.

curse of the transparent box

there was a box that was tired and there was a box that was broken across its solid shell bottom. the woman stood inside the crack and tried to fill the space with her fingertips. but that did not work and so she drank until she developed cirrhosis of the tongue. the roof of her mouth fell off. the cage filled with sticky tack bits. the sharp ends bit through the breasts and broke apart. there were exoskeleton udders hanging down. the milk asked for penance and was given a number of prostituted g-strings. they ate up all the offertory candles and whored the wicks out. it was over sixty dollars just to lick the charcoal off the wax strings. it took an extra twenty cents to show the molten indentations. all the religious men took out their necktie reliquaries and roped their feet with the saintly prayer wheels. the beads stuck together and pulled out little box genitals.

curse of the wax molds

bees dropped into gelatinous silicon molds and become various sexual orifices and all of the corresponding appendages. all the little wonderland biddies got tired of the stinging acts and tried to drink straight poison. it was for the full effect of getting drunk. they got high off the sternum juice and rocketed around the dirt clots three times over. of course no one was looking and so they came back down while landing on their necks. this was the little miss animal act and all the boys were tired of the way the wax kept cracking across its neck. they were not opposed to full-blown decapitation but anything so halfway was offensive. it led to a resinous bleeding that made their wrists itch. they had to scratch with kitchen knives. they had capsicum ocular holes filled with bits of poison ivy branches. someone pulled the roots and everything fell out.

curse of the queen

this queen bee. oh this little stinging monarch queen sitting in her bread and butter jar while filing her stinger off. entomology in a sex change. she wanted to be the little male fluttering around while spreading his semen in lieu of pollen. just because it smelled like a molasses honeydew melon. because it tasted of a tongue stuck to the gas grill. then she flayed herself open and the bees painted her with red. it was the only pigment belonging to their tongues. she tried not to turn in circles but their eyes scratched her wings off. she was a bare-backed mare without any pegasus wings. so she tore the hive walls down with the bottoms of her feet. the cold killed everything. the bees fluttering but a swarm of wasps bit their heads off and left their abdomens squirming. in the last death throes, she threw her arms and legs apart and waited to reach a glued salvation.

curse of the torso

torso grew until it was nothing. it didn't want to eat directly from an open mouth. but its lips wanted something else. they kept chewing while the little muscle men ran around wagging their scarlet penises. there was a disease living beneath the pubic flesh folds. the girls licked them out and spread them to their own ears. it interfered with their hearing. hence why they couldn't breathe without breaking a sweat. why their hands were always on each other's nippled breasts. there were goosebumps and nervous ticks and even the little leech lamprey snakes that wound around the walls and tried to make a body from scratch. they wanted to be animated godheads. let heaven live in the stockade ribcage. let all those universal doctrines interfere with the way the torso bred and sobbed. because it was infertile and it got red on everything but its hands.