The Melvins did not survive. The horses were busy sweeping their own entrails off the floor, as the grape wrote it's letter of apology, to it's higher food-stuff. One rather stick to the expression of eating bizarre than eating fictional. Eating too much nothingness results in white poisoning, mind. The Grape was unwetted, and thorn-like. A son of a demonic newt, covered with paper-thin fragments, the texture that of a yak's malestrum. Such law-defying follies, surrounding the frilly fillies that tortured the soul of the self-directed artist, was a majestic subject to marvel upon. Indeed. The Gizzards of racism, sowed so dilligentally into saccurine slendor, alongside the maddening, nazi-esque delivery of humanly propaganda only acted as the superdimensional engine that powered the existiential rack. The fact that so many spheres were abiding such a rough cerebral current was either laughable or beyond distastful. However, it demanded to be scrutinized, the cancer that it was. Now, the grape was of mediocre value to the house of the proverbal peanut-butter and jelly, between the daily temporal sandwich of dawn and dusk, subtracting the peanut butter from the magneta sulfer, of course.
"I have obidiently followed the slovenly way of my wine-fodder ancestors, now may I fufil my white-horsed phantasy, O gentle-jawed maiden?"
"Neigh! You cannot dance so wolfishly in a theatre of gazelle, for that is demographic mockery, O wine fodder!"
"Thoust are a hypocrite. Many can see through your 2 p.m. shroud of goodwill, you advocater of carpenter's bounty!"
"Such insults being spat at my geographies! I demand to know who shall suffer my hubristic humanly inferno!" It was the white horse. The honey-trap, the grape so desprately wished to fall victim to, aware of what knelt at the bottom. Of course, one can never forget the equal weight the slovenly grape takes up within us all. Both of them shall be condemned to the eternal whipping with copper wires. Later. But for now, we continue the masked charade of modern-day integrity. We laugh.
"Where is the harbinger for the end of pleasant, casual conversation, O grape, and sandwich?"
"Wandering the naturalist's vain path, I assume". We merrily laugh at such a cruel and sad fate of such an unhatched mind. "Hahaha, Oh jolly a jest, Grape! I shall admire your slovenliness with but a drop of Eden, to enamour your placid addictions!" Such a disgusting theory put into shy reality? Something the average worm did not dig through before. "Tight-rope WALKER!" "Ho, what does the sandwich bicker about now?" "You. Do you attempt to overpower my beautful scorpion-tailed entanglement? Such a mathimatically flawless beauty, decided by such gods themselves! You cannot but stand in the realm of pathetic otherworldly neural illusions!" The lowly taunts that day would make dante, even on the 9th, seem roasted. It was a miraculous, yet all too common sparring between other cosmos indeed. Everyone is a maniacal overlord in progress, although failing everytime, lest they break social ettequete, and face the in-fE-rnal trap. Oh my. Such a clever jest will not go unpunished. "Shall we just end the curtain, sisters?" Such a big idea, from such a small spec of organic matter. Not even human, by inhuman standards. Plants are people too. "So soon?" At this rate 4 times 5 will equal 14 before the beautiful one can finish her psychadellic descent!". The white horse had a strong point, but she was not the white queen. Not yet. To the white queen, she was merely a plaything, for such merry antics not worth scarring the seeds with. A Sickle, if you will! Jest!
So, watch the velvet fabric decapitate the mortals once more, to be re-assembled as blind as they were from the beginning. Farewell.
And a lesson to the embryonic wenches- abide by the acidic current, and your crops will not run east so quickly. For, our ploy is infinate, as long is a pair of notes follow you, carried by the black and white birds. This time, I bid you true.