Duck war
Macbeth's friends ex boyfriends' new girlfriend.
the play is for one after all, a solo show strut open a stage of open air, gazelles flying about the wings almost as if there is no audience at all, because there is not, only a seasoned war criminal sitting in a chair made of cum, slanting and hurling insults with arms that never tire, the accessories of a great war machine engineered for hatred.
she can't take them; too much of anything and she falls on her side, arms picking her up and conveniently slamming into the closest.
BAM
she killed the only one she loved out of hatred and sheer indignity. indignation like a large stray cat, speckled and long, arms like chimneys and legs the size of billiard balls she waltzed, wandered, wallowed searching for novel gayness. dressed up like a spare bedroom she crossed a bridge, when the bones and retribution of the many sauces before her became a flood, a thundering roar of queerness no one human could move, even with thundering biceps and a forehead the size of west virginia.
she clapped against the floor like the many asses before her; and died. suffered a gruesome death full of sound and fury, signifying nothing. a call of silence to a deaf void, Noone heard cared and bothered, she has passed, and I, the quack from the ducks mouth, thrive.