Confessions of a bag

"Up to the hilt," said
the grumbly-looking fuck
to the business chameleon
with the notebook computer
atop the erect beige tray.

(The cheese from lunch sat upon its keyboard,
in a fluctuation of real and not real.)

They were on a plane together;
they felt life passing them by;
they felt the clouds
had a thing with god.

They felt the world
more organized than they
and comfortably bound
below them.

So they made compensatory fun
of others
and jerked each other off.
But mostly they fell in love
with the stewardessae,
upchucking lunch,
clearing a path for dinner,
becoming potted.

(Both trays remained stiffly cantilevered
as if waiting for an exam)

They were going to Japan,
their noses getting along,
their silent pricks,
all becoming a leching cake
for the happy attendant
with birthday eyes,
for all she was worth.
A cake placed
fiendishly inside an envelope,
grumbly feigning ill
as was pre-arranged
with the fine-grained, non-birthday
And thus was she lured to them.

"Jane," - her name - "you've no relief
for me," gestured potted grumbly,
ho ho-ing from within a cheese haze
of molded lechery
(monday's cheese is iffy;
but tuesday's is terriffy)
and winked numerously, till
"I believe in nothing,"
sprang from Jane,
"except birthdays and quaint."
And the repartee went on,
and on until grumbly
asked for kissum desserts
and got that indeed
upon his stain-shaped nevus
(or was it rubefaction?)
while the plane began to pivot
like a snail's eye or
a black wreath outside time.

"And what about cake?" winked
the chameleon, purple-hued,
neuraxons clacking,
opening the envelope of deceit
as if 'twere a season,
"We had a thought
that you might hurt
for the lack of affective flirt
on this day of days,
inside a starched shirt;
since we live in our worlds but once,
and depart;
since we share
and in this might sanctify our leaving;
since the gods had clouds in their mind
when they died;
and since (oof!) grumbly's just delivered
a spearish jab to my ribs
being that said cake
is in fact a sexual guerilla
and a verity lap
about the circumference
of an omission."

So that then
upchorused the men
"O happy birthday from we
who would name you
with festive intent,"
to Jane who floated
like an unsullied kleenex
that waits for tree limbs
or for diamonds to speak;
"Happy b-day from we;
ho ho yes,
yes then more,
more from we!"
said the men. At Jane.

Except Jane by this time
had swished favor aside
like a feathercake upon a slide,
that she might just once
shoot this man grumbly
in the ear,
or perhaps twice, since she's here,
imagine the force,
the very titter from its source
like a june bug,
while the stewardessae,
pink-hued and catching themselves on,
frisked old chameleon purple-hue,
slamming the muh fuh
down the flo',
and holding cinder blocks
above his chest, hips and knees
till his screech
was the connection with
the plane and the stars
and the organizing sea;
and his purpose the descent
of the paltry and the commissioned;
and his jizz the plinth
upon which these recusant facts skidded
and went haywire
like too much technical
love of living.