untimely death of a pet-pest

untimely death of a pet-pest
by ramakrishnan parthasarathy. 
The pad physics of a beastly extension holds no resultant forces for motion just like metaphysics provides the same in my sovereign case. How sovereign are we or our products of cold storage, thought I as I finally disturbed my Rodin museum relic posture to open the refrigerator. The relic revels in the airing of its stony balls by way of absent accoutrements while I relish the audacity of donning half-a-decade old relics to cover my shame. We open refrigerators for nutritional benefits or to stack them…or so I hear. My teleological suspension ended with the need to throw a half-a-year old milk can and a couple of salads away, although they still did not emit vapours stifled by re-marketable textures and colours for which the gecko had postponed its large-eyed excitement to remain in a state of equipoise. Legend has it that a gecko’s visit to a milk container renders it poisonous enough to harm us humans but I had it all worked out. My milk kills heavyweight boxers and their promoters too. The beast’s reaction to my slamming the door open, however, was mentally subtractive enough for it to proceed to being a few nails away from the crucifixion of St. Peter – a state eased by the filling popping out of the skin to crown a masterly public suicide, before my abstruse state overpowered. I lay down somewhere close to the disaster and simply walked off as soon as dreamland ended, letting the milk live and giving enough hope for the scientist to create magic potions, without enough room for understanding sentence and life insurance of geckos.

1 thought on “untimely death of a pet-pest

  1. “Insuring your bras and panties, love…GEICO”.
    Hey, congratulations on becoming engaged…i am enraged with joy for you.
    i think this piece could have been written by an erudite (commented on by a luddite [who used to play on a Ludwig snare drum]; and someone who holds a masters in electrical engineering). Teleological .. you say, but do i sense some epistemological lonliness? A Marxist/Lenonist could be an enterprising young bohemian who watches Groucho and the lead singer of the Beatles… Was Lenon’s solo albums really a precursor to PUNK? “I don’t believe in Hitler” is good to know, I’ll pass up the Meatloaf and order some Captain Beefheart (with my Captain Morgan).
    Monologue confessions of kitchen soliloquoy are the onomoenopoeia of my inner tying a knot so i can hang on. Thanks.
    Imagine a culture and democratic civilization who would have chose fire-tongued Patrick Henry over Thomas Jefferson in his house slippers and you can begin to gauge the fathoms of my bewilderment with the masses with their ‘American Idol’ tv’s…Nowadays, to donate ‘plasma’ is to hook someone up with hi-def entertainment. Marie Curie save Me!

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