Come On, Eileen

homosapiens do not understand how candy corn reptiles can be the ultimate cobbler gobblers when inspired by the Bulgarian songs of the Firefly Forests where flightless eagles dance on one foot and hoola-hoop with the other and scream, “Oh, you’re a Rich Girl!” At the top of their lungs which then attracts the Pepperoni People of Cakeland whom then cry and cry and cry until they laugh at the forgotten socks and popcorn dogs that once ruled the Realm of Elephants but was laid ruin by the malicious crescent moon-born-manta rays where crumbling walls and tunnels that echo the Beatles are plagued by floods of fruit loops and crumbling cookies and lollipops and BARBRA STREISAND which is only survived by silver, neon orange, and lavender tigers that hide in faulty pillow forts and when struck by lightning turn into wallflowers, basking in the setting sun. No Angels like Nutella.



4 comments on “Come On, Eileen

  1. kxsper says:

    Angelic-Nutella would be the LSD that you found an got a little too hooked on: spatter painted your adventures on the only canvas you knew how,
    Because hula-hooping into the forest and across the sunset for the wildthings wasn’t just enough- yet,
    We still had places to go. And balls to place on our bums and thimbles to place on our hearts, and I’ll just tell you that the best friendships are written in poetry- and this time literally, because now we have ‘that one time’ where neon tigers ran rampant for Italy, and yellow giraffes in metallic attire carried us away- no I don’t know how to say thank you- but I feel like yelling ‘COME ON’ might just be the start

  2. Quick returns from quick goodbyes after quick hellos and a promise of never-coming-back-atleast-today and I’ll-talk-to-you-about-that one-thing-laters and neon orange tiger gone, taking your a favorite of yours with her key-clanking steps and BillyJoel classics in backpockets where mobility techs go buzz-buzz just like the buzz-buzz of camouflage buzzing-booze in cranberry-grape-friendship-drunkeness, the same drunkeness that leads to Come-On-Eileen mishaps and half-haps-of-happenings and I-Swear-these-moments-are-too-damn-precious-to-not-POP-DROP-AND-LOCK with joy. Something had to come out, someone had to scream, someone had to, had to, had to, tell you to snort liquid PURE drunkeness through your nose because AMANDA BYNES can’t touch the preciousness of a neon tiger’s return to see the only real dramaqueen she’s ever known be carted away by her little servants. PASS THE GRAPES on his carriage because cranberry-grape drunkeness won’t pass for the feeling of breaking out. Cause that hoola-hoop knee had to break out the way you had to break out of you, and

    THANK YOU, for putting our cranberry-grape drunkeness in a Come-On-Eileen post.

  3. “Grief does not change you, Hazel. It reveals you.”

    They revealed themselves as love. Despite their throbbing hangovers from heart-to-hearts and from cranberry-grape. Despite pure fear and terror rushing from the depths of his emotions to their unwilling ears, they revealed themselves as love. In the midst of severe tingling, ice-pick metaphors, and dancing fingers, he revealed himself as a cowardly bad-ass. One who relies on others just as they rely on him and like the tides rely on the moon and the earth relies on the sun. Together with the brilliance of Angel Ovens, Anonymous Wombats, and little feet, he learns how to express, how to funnel all the dark with splotches of light into his notebook, rather than through a blade. Because he had to. It was his destiny. All of it was his destiny. Come On, Eileen was his destiny. Love, was his destiny.

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