[…]


Yedda Morrison

Deerie Lu


Oh cheerful Fawn! Patent leather hooves wedge into freeze-
dried moss, don’t slip on that vinyl river rock, the studio
will KILL you. Wet nose in a big clown flower. Synthetic
Jasmine smells like Freesia! Squeeze it and it squirts!

Oomph. My rumph. Bambi heart. Damp spotty. Roundy. Leany.
Sloapy. Fawny. Flick goes the tail. Flick goes the tongue.
Flick goes the giant animated vulva. Oh Flower! Oh Fawn!

We are bald baby hearts, bling bling! We beat! We are
xtreme feelings, the colors oh! We are pencil legs and
lean, lean on the waxy office ficas. Soft wet spots that
blur and glow. Dusty toadstools and rainbow waterfall,
bubbles and moonbeams. Mouths of sugar that melt and melt
and tongues so coarse for licking.

Are you my mother?

Deerie Lu the Cheerful Fawn stands rigid on the indoor-
outdoor. Flick goes the giant animated eye. Bling bling.
Bling bling. The gun is larger than mars. so what if it’s
plastic. Bling bling! Bling bling!

Listen, “Huntingforbambi.com is here to stay.” “I shot the
one with the biggest rack!” “it’s a freakin DREAM CUM
TRUE!”

There is the fact of the hunter shooting the other six.
Motivated he said by a racial slur. Disputes over a popular
blind. The fact of Deerie’s desirability and the way the
hunter after killing the six still craves her weight
against his shoulder. You are my wean, my ambush.

Oh Flower!

Oh Fawn!

We are going into the forest to hunt. It’s mad ripe.
Furries tweaking on every branch and screwing under bush.
We crouch down, consult our nature. The stick of my gun
exploding brings down a hairy meat ball. It will be torn
inside and I’ll stuff it and eat it and bang it on the forest
floor. The forest is full of wonder. I’ve touched it and
tasted.

Whistling, crying, wretched flitting devils in a soda bath
all eyeball bubbles and impulse you’ll GIVE ME AWAY! Fly me
over that fleshy nest pot I’ll pop shot bigger than all of
you the downy headed chicks, pants around my ankles. So the
pope shits in the woods and the furries with their fine
fine noses do nothing more than sniff?

We are going into the streets to hunt. The three of us;
Father, Son and Holy Moist. We clip our own creation from
the sky. One the shot for fun. Two it sticks like glue.
Three on its bleeding natural knee. We are hunting for the
warm limp body of love.

Warble warble the singing shot. The shot and its clap,
closing inside the mealy chest. Drops like weight from the
Disney blue. Dark love spot landing in water, sinks dead
down. I cry my killed love duck choking in riverweeds at
the very bottom on a sunken branch. A catfish slides
through the empty socket. Weight wet eaten. And the hunter?
Hungers.

Meat, you were my table.

Oh Flower.

Oh Fawn.

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