Twitter Sonnet #107
Child motorists hate petrol stations.
But purple dinosaurs open their veins.
Dead plush stinks of stale libations.
Giant pinballs hoard the left freeway lanes.
Fast bipeds with tails fall prey to footpads.
Some cat monsters always have big noses.
Plastic kid octopi have absent dads.
And nowhere to go when Sea World closes.
A pawn moves slowly across countryside.
The white rabbit was never a chess piece.
A music video's no place for pride.
The best sculpted stars have a wooden fleece.
Young yoghurt golems never leave last wills.
Murders on trolleys pale next to train kills.
I finally took my car in to-day to repair the damage caused when a guy backed into it in November. I won't have it back until Thursday or Friday and I had to take the trolley to get back across town from the dealership. I was surprised to find standing room only on the trolley. In front of me were a young couple dressed in black--the girl had a big, poofy, inconspicuous jacket and long, straight black hair in a ponytail while the guy wore a pin-striped, button down shirt and had a large, dishevelled black afro (they were both white). She read aloud to him the whole time from a Christopher Pike novel, which I somehow found really cute.
When I got back to Santee, I discovered the city had closed off part of my usual route when walking from the trolley station, forcing me to make a big detour. I got back here at almost 7pm, sweaty and exhausted, and I still needed to write the new Venia's Travels script, which I wound up having no time for yesterday after I spent hours creating and compiling information for it. I had trouble sleeping last night because I was thinking about it--I often see the chapters as being comprised of Tetris blocks of story that need to be arranged in a certain way. By the time I got back to-day, I had pretty good idea of what the chapter's going to be, but I'm still having trouble getting started. I wrote the first page before I took a shower, but I think I'm going to need to rewrite it.
I guess I'd better get to it . . .