Mmmbrrow. Mmrow. Mbrow.

I was out for a walk on the eve that we met; With awestruck hands on the balustrade, I saw a bairn on the fringe of the moorland, swaddled in white, a cherub astray. With a squint of my eyes, I saw at his crown two hollow-horned vessels and the fur of a hound. The eyes of an oxen stared back afraid. The hooves of a beast on the arms of a babe. All I could do was gather the fawn, bundled up in my arms, I sang him a song. Roses are reds and white are the bones. Do you want to come home? My gentle wife, heedless, opened the door, uncovered the skin and the coos and the horns. He squalled for the Mother, but absent was she, so we fostered the infant- a family of three. As the years away moldered, our billy boy grew, his frame strong and stout as his father’s was too, and much like his mother, his nature was kind, so when mingling with townsfolk, good favor he’d find. The Baby beloved by the rich and the poor, the blissful young beast knew not of forlorn. In throngs came the people, the patrons, the pain, beguiled by the baby’s immeasurable fame. Much like the Baby, my woman was kind, but sharp grew her horns like the blade of a knife. When repose is disrupted, despondency nigh, I traded the beast from my boy to my wife. And though quelled her I did, for the early deluge, I squandered myself to that envious bruise. The arms that once were a haven for the young now contorted with spite and armed with a gun. He fled and he left us in grief and remorse, our baby boy beastling no longer our thorn. Along with our peace, we were widowed of love. Alone with our thoughts, our family was done.

There are wild horses, cascades of brumbies and mustangs, en route with a foresight, my prospects resounding. They’ll haul me, this convoy, a gold-studded cowboy far, far away for a far further bounty. Corduroy sofas and home-brew cream sodas. The endless ocean drowning impending quotas. A sign on the fairground, visitation don’t bode well. Not an iota of sound barring whinnies and windfall abound. There’s no place that I’d rather be than a cottage-style home with a cushy couch - Rococo - with my quadrupedal friend on a colossal cliff, with a lamb’s ear patch, and the roofing thatched, on unnamed land, with a sweet little cat and a pomegranate tree by the equine sea.

Forever and always, I know that I’ll be here. Green and white bricks in my vision, they appear. If I can pretend to know the explanation, maybe in the end, my questions will be answered. There are others inside here, caterwauling down the halls of green and white brick. Screams are seeping through the walls. I wish that I was there, leaned up against your shoulder, but it’s better for me here, and that life is over. That’s what they tell me. Sometimes I forget that you’ve gone and hurt me. When are you going to quit that? That’s what they tell me. I’ve been very sick. I’ve gone and hurt me. It’s my best trick. Brickwork, buried clocks in the walls. It hurts, but I don’t miss you at all now. The fractured mind is a strange situation- the green and white bricks of my imagination.

My cat is ugly. He’s a fat ass. He’s lazy. Most folks don’t like him, but I do. He’s my baby. My cat is an acquired taste, like catnip. I love him. Mi gato es feo. Muy gordo. Lo amo. My cat is an asshole. He works for a fishy organization, but he’d never scratch me. He makes biscuits on my blankets. My cat is a fuckboy but those paw prints- I love them.

I was lost and alone, no man of my own asking God for someone to give my heart to. I remember it well. I won’t kiss and tell, but the moment we met, I knew he was you. Our wedding was quick. Our marriage was strong. The church bells bellowed all year long. I prayed for a man to prey on me true, and the moment we met, I knew he was you. The moment we met, seconds to minutes. I count down the days, but I’m still living in it. I’m never afraid because ends are beginnings. The moment we met plays time after time. The moment we met, I knew you were mine. The love bird flies south when the winter assails. Our love bird’s detained in an opaline cell. He’s all skin and bones because I’ve loved you so long. The moment we met just goes on and on. Dawdling on the porch swing in an apple-sweet breeze, I hear the pitter-patter of quick little feet. We’re living paradise in a pair of eyes, and the kids will be kids in our biblical life. Caught in the threads of an unending net, I am rooted and right in the moment we met.

Every woman I ever loved- limpid eyes, tangerine skin, bewitching lips and stitched. A dollfull of pins. She will salvage us, a holy union. Deliver unto me this penance, O, harbinger of thirst and guidance. I possess the vice of men. Faces, aliases, all of them be- the mother of my child has many names. Many bodies, multi-conscious is she- they all converge, my patchwork beldame. I await with trembling fervor, the rapture of my flesh and seed by the arrival of the amalgam of the women I prayed for her to be. I have earned this trophy well. I’ll build her up all by myself. My world will end between her thighs. My world begins when she arrives.

Bumbly little baby bees buzzing blindly behind me.

Sometimes I felt like a mouse in a cage in a covetous tango with a snake. Vexed is the vermin caught in the charms of the vertical serpent who slithered too far, but if they gave Eve some hand wraps and headgear, she’d have wrangled original sin. Snakeskin black belt, obsidian fruit, with gold-hilt shovel she is primed and prim. I file my teeth on the paling and then my ears grow precise in the noise of my pen. Sometimes I feel like a mouse in a cage, bitten and bruised as he locks me away. Of the falling in love with carnivores, you take the path of the prisoner or the dirt in the floor, break open the bones, break open the gate, or dig up the tiles and bury the snake. Is it really my fault for the worship of worms? Can a mouse lose her tail from a venomous burn? He chose to spar, and what did he get? The prizefighter dies from the bite of a rat. In a cage match, lock the hatch. Make it out without a scratch. You threw me in a cage match.

Bradley, you know I like your ass and if we got together, maybe I could ask you to the prom. We could match our ties with your brand new car. We could take it for a ride. Bradley, you know I really like you, and if we got together, I wouldn’t have to fight you in the hallway to prove I ain’t a fag. Sometimes I think you’re cute, but that really ain’t my bag. Oh, Bradley, someday we could fly away. You could be a doctor and I’ll work for the state. It’s good insurance. We won’t have to be afraid. I think maybe someday, we will be okay. We will be okay. Bradley, I know it isn’t right, but I really hate your girlfriend. She really ain’t too bright. Not like my gal. She’s the finest of the bunch. You don’t have to worry, we’ll be married in a month. You should have seen me. I kissed her at the pool. She plays me Beatles songs in the parking lot after school. When I hear Yesterday, sometimes I think of you. I really love that song, and I think you’d like it too. Bradley, I’ve never been drunk, but we could split a fifth if you’d want to fuck and forget it. I’m sorry for all the things I said. I know that I won’t see you once graduation ends. They won’t let me walk a rainbow across the stage. You said you understand their reasons, but I’m enraged. We’re always running out of time. I think your dad was right. Men like me will ruin your life, Bradley. Someday we could fly away. If we soar in opposite directions, we might be okay.

Little kids grow up around here with magic marker mustaches. Clown makeup, powdered noses- facepaint ain’t enough, I know. Trading glue for better stuff, adherence here is pretty tough. In these hills, nothing sticks. You get away or get your fix. I wonder where that boy is now? Barely old enough to read, he stole a yearbook from Ms. Audrea to fill his backpack up with treats. If we cut up all the photographs, and collage them up on plexiglass. A kaleidoscope of hungry brats with sorghum stashed in paper bags. Too much sugar makes you sick. Take us back to stones and sticks. Take us back to treats and tricks. God, I hope we scratch the itch. I see it still. Must be worth the thrill. There’s ain’t nothing sweeter in the world than sugar pills.

Cone

He tainted me. Bittersweet, I’ve fallen like a devil at his feet. Everyone knows that boys like him go looking for devils with fragile heartbeats. He dreams of a demon to help him sleep. perched on his chest in between winks. But, I’m reawakening for the thirty first time. Thirty one dreams and thirty one tries. I’m reawakening but I’m still so tired. In dreams, my wings will come untied. I’ve heard it before. Prayers are weak. “Now I lay me down to sleep.” Sedatives in sad kisses and sleepy eyes are convincing things. He loves me with our eyes closed, a lazy little fantasy. But, I’m reawakening for the sixty third time. Sixty three dreams and sixty three tries. I’m reawakening but I’m still so tired. In dreams, my wings will come untied. In hourglasses, we have danced back and forth and back again. I’m still afraid that falling sand will one day wake me up and when the nightmare ends, I’m reawakening for the ninety-ninth time. Ninety-nine dreams. Ninety-nine lives. I’ll still rehearse counting the weeping sheep, and I’ll see him again when I fall asleep.

Downstate Vermont, November 2006- in the unassuming suburbs of Shapetown, Triangle Chicken Jones and his then-wife of two years, Square Chicken Smith-Jones, formed what would later become one of the highest grossing international touring acts in history. At 6 AM, o6 was fun. Singing Britney songs all night long. Upload them to MySpace. Our webcam is on. At 6 AM, o6 was fun. The young couple, having purchased a cottage on the east coast the previous year, where Jones discovered his love of acoustic guitar, he soon began performing at local ice cream shops. Square Chicken, though her voice was brittle, scraggly, and completely devoid of pitch, lent her unique vocal gifts to the duo, which they named His Crazy Mind after a brief encounter with Shapetown police. This venture proved wildly unsuccessful, with sound violations and concerned creamery patrons signaling what would surely be the end of the group. Fortunately, the birth of their first son paved Square Chicken Smith-Jones’s exit from the act, leaving Triangle Chicken the sole member of His Crazy Mind. With his unwavering optimism, uncanny professionalism, and a touch of luck, he set out with his guitar for the big apple to reinvigorate the band he knew was his future. At 6 AM, o6 was fun. Singing Rihanna songs all night long. Eating hot fries while Jackass the movie is on. At 6 AM, o6 was fun. One of many unsuccessful entrepreneurs in downtown New York City, Mildred Greunters moved from California to work with her sisters, who had promised her a place in the family clown business. Quickly realizing their clownery was a multi-level-marketing scheme, Mildred made the choice to pursue multiple income streams, including late night gigs transporting heavy equipment, professional kite-flying, and as fate would have it, waitressing at ice cream shops. It was in a local ice cream parlor that Greunters and Jones first met. Triangle Chicken had booked a solo gig on a night in December 2006, and mid-song, learned that the waitress happened to suffer from an unusual plague of wails, moans, and snorts. Mildred began uncontrollably screeching along with Jones’ folksy sing-alongs and their duet developed into what those at the parlor that night might recount as the earliest incarnation of Zebraplop as we know them. At 6 AM, o6 was fun. Singing Avril songs all night long. Three way calls and bad sunburn. At 6 AM, o6 was fun. For the first few months of their touring, they remained a duet, though they were (and still are) occasionally joined by bassist Mr. Grovenheld Wick. It wasn’t until June of 2007 that the group met Foone. While driving the interstate, Mr. Wick’s vision was flooded with an unfathomable array of unknowable colors. Witnesses state they could hear the band’s screams from miles away as their bus careened off the highway and into a wasteland. As the dust settled, the three comrades discovered that an inter-dimensional traveler had appeared in their bus- a shelled, conic cyclops who telepathically introduced himself as Foone. He would never speak again. But silence spoke louder than words as Foone threw himself haphazardly against the spare drum kit in the back of the bus. Quickly honing his rhythm, Foone had found himself a steady career as the drummer of Zebraplop. At 6 AM, o6 was fun. Singing Zebraplop songs all night long. You and I and everyone. At 6 AM, o6 was fun. With Square Chicken as the band’s manager, Greunters, Jones, and Foone dubbed themselves Zebraplop. Though Zebraplop took a break through the 2010s due to multiple incarcerations, impalement, and solo projects, 2024 saw their comeback in the form of this record. Long live the Zebraplop sound.