Thursday, July 6, 2017

mytovocal transmiklism: a voenide for the health of the masses.

The drums slammed.  The walking bass thump thump thumped.  The young, dumb girls swayed, entranced.  Mikl ran onto the stage, from stage left, and began....

"PDDDDDDDDDDD  ah-summertime!"  There were murmurs from the crowd.  He had gotten their attention.

"Your daddy is rich" he sang.  "And your momma is good looking.  So hush, little baby, don't you cry."

In Mikl's mind, the snowbird slowly danced.  Crystalline eyes sleepy.

"One of these days, you're gonna rise up singing" sang Mikl.

The audience could contain themselves no longer; they all came forward at once and took a handful of Mikl, devouring the entertainer.  In the last seconds of his life, he knew he was truly fortunate to be broadcast in such a dull and final way, like an open-air fart dispersing into the atmosphere.

Mikl joined Janis Joplin in the spacial ether.

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