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Lune de Miel |
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by F.J. Bergmann
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1:06 |
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Papaya-mango sorbet with poignant little wisps of mayonnaise noire melted gradually into a vat of stewed purple cabbage as the hot turgid swollen orange orb of the sun, deformed by thermal gradients low in the atmosphere and discolored somewhat more than usual as a result of “secret” nuclear above-ground “testing” two months previously when the guys at Silo 28 had gotten a bit carried away at the ritual orientation ritual for new employees, slunk slowly into the dark lapping waves of the latest El Niño while taking one last lingering glance of amazement at the outrageously obtrusive decor of the Pink Parrot Patio Café on the third deck of the cruise ship Good Humor where Donald, weeping silently in his inner soul and also into his shrimp salad as his life crashed around him like a calving iceberg’s afterbirth, realized with dawning horror that he could no longer bear to witness his Billiellen’s hideous juxtapositions from the à la carte menu, knew with icy certainty that their Romantic Special Off-Season Rate Discount Honeymoon was dead in the water, and idly began to speculate as to just how expensive the primitive local islanders’ Eezee D!Vorss ceremony was likely to run at the current rate of exchange.
F.J. Bergmann lives in Wisconsin, for the 4th or 5th time. She claims to have an MFA from the School of the Americas. A previous existence was spent working with horses. She considers herself primarily a failed visual artist. She is to blame for everything, including madpoetry.org, a local poetry website , and her own site, fibitz.com. She reads at spoken word venues and has been published in print magazines including the Beloit Poetry Journal, Cannibal, Margie, Pavement Saw, and on asininepoetry.com (as Easter Cathay). Her hairstyle is deceptive. One of her pseudopodia can reach all the way from the bedroom to the refrigerator. Her favorite authors all write science fiction.
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