Dame Folly (more from Cosmograph

Our Lady of the Pirouette stands next to bankers on the edge of a great precipice of real estate and Nike sneakers and all the cocaine you’ll never get up your nose. She arranges the future, lifting her skirts and breaking wind over mundane morning espresso shots. Grotesquely real, ripped hunks mount bikes and gym weights behind square Aryan jaws and narrow sunglasses. The old croaker bore me into a world-bank account of elephantine creatures whose hunger reaches behind the mind the mound the mouth the month mud measure mourning beetles bees Brahmins and blues of puerile progress. Observe the American He-Man balling Folly while juggling seven toddlers. The little ones cry but our ripped stud tightens concrete buttocks and gushes a load on Folly’s crack. He drops the kids. They land with a loud thwack, thwack, thwack. Foolish Folly flees moonward moaning meaningfully hear her giggling ghoulish delight from moon height passing gas amassing asinine assumptions—stick dick hick crackery stone fondling stone sucking bone hump thumping knee-bent genuflection. Squirrels hurl nuts across the limbs of their pecan cosmos. Twenty-first century mind ooze spreads from limestone and clay deposits Folly stabs with stiff stiletto heels.