Worry not if your fingers stick together with a stench that cannot be washed, no matter

the coarseness of a cleaning brush.

For we say the phrase, this story must be told.

The story must be told.

And now this young man shall read us an old psalm.

So pick the dirt under the fingernail of your neighbor, for we must cleanse ourselves before the word.

A dirty woman under the blanket, she's a squirman.

Her stink is ripe and sweet.

A cloud rises sulfur in the train car.

Under the blanket with no eyes, she is free, free to rub, rub, rub, free to stink, stink, stink.

Hey, what's under the blanket?

The train conductor says in fury.

Blankets are for secrets. No, no, no, no, no secrets here. The blanket drops, teeth gnashing with spit,

a hand down her pants, urine hot on the seat. She smells like Mother's Day.

I want to bury you in my yard, deep in the mud.

I want to draw you as you become one with the worms and descend into muck.

We thank you sincerely and pray.

This story must be told.

The story must be told. The story must be told.

An epistle from Scab-Grabber Bishop to the ones who are always looking for freshness, titled Mommy's Little Tipper. I'm sorry. tossing the bodies loving animals into the dumpster, the veterinarian had to hold a rag over his mouth.

Jesus Christ, he groaned, for the rank smell of the week's worth of rotting pets had grown worse in the baking Indian summer.

He made a fortune off of

...