Mittens on kittens
Cute, but what are you thinking?
It’s a freakin’ cat.
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Mittens on kittens
Cute, but what are you thinking?
It’s a freakin’ cat.
It’s Just Jot It January! Click here and join in any time!
You preen and promenade your way ’round town, your ego ejaculating from you like a sprinkler on a rainy day; useless and no one wants it. You smile as I watch you overtly. Yet surreptitiously I study you, striving to catch you with my magnifying glass in the sizzling sunlight.
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I need to move to a warmer climate. Here, the polar bears sit on me and the penguins poop on me and I’m just miserable, you know? It’s not easy being frozen inside an iceberg. Maybe if I bob out of the water and stare at a passing cruise ship…
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Is there elegance in your bones?
Let me imagine you
Your skeleton click-clacking
With nary a muscle nor hair
To impede your dance
Your pirouette
Your ivory grin
As you twirl and spin
And fall to a pile
Of twigs.
Where did you go?
Piece back together your elegant bones
And dance for me once more.
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My new girlfriend fell in love with my stamp collection on our first date. On the second I showed her my Star Wars figurines and she was ecstatic. So tonight, on our third date, I’ll introduce her to my stool sample collection the doctor requested. And I plan to propose.
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“What’s going on?” she asks as if there’s nothing wrong. But there is, of course, something terrible about to happen in my shorts. She forgot to remind me to go potty… She’s going to be mad. But then again, that’s typical of my wife.
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It’s day two hundred and eleven and I’m still waiting for the opportunity to come out in the open. I will ask the first human I encounter to take me to their leader. Conditions are cramped; I long to hear the sound of my own voice. I see a light…
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He motivates me like cake,
mused Miss Mouse,
as she nibbled and pondered
upon her latest beau.
She found him under the
kitchen table, sniffing around
between the dust bunnies
of old.
For it has been ages since
the big footed creatures
dropped crumbs here and so
there’s little left.
But the memory of cake
like a dream half flown
remains in the back-forty
of Miss Mouse’s brain.
I think I’ll come out tonight,
and try some Mr. Mouse cake,
and maybe, just maybe,
we’ll make crumbs of our own.
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The sacrificial lamb wisely runs with the sheep.
The coward fearlessly trolls the internet.
What’s the difference?
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My love lives on skull island,
where roses grow from bony sockets
and children draw faces in caves
where their ancestors lay.
No trees grow on skull island;
only grey rocks, flat and colourless as the sky above
with its eternal cloud cover, threatens
but never gifts rain.
My dear lives on skull island,
damned to rule over sinless children
growing roses as penance
for my death.
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