For Want Of By Kevin Mulligan
Flying jabberwocky monkey pickles blew past the stop sign of endgame. Silent grief dropped from the sky, gluing itself to the parade. Garbage bag floaters shone like bricks melting on a grilled cheese cabbage. Alice drank her milk, thinking Kool Aid posters of dice on a blackboard. Meanwhile, Sherlock sluiced the kielbasa as Murdock fired up the Cadillac. Onward, crime sighters, throw down your periscopes. Methuselah waits on a pinhead, wishing for yarn, settling for spaghetti. ―Hunger, what‘s that?‖ asked the empty container. ―Can‘t say, can‘t stay,‖ replied the burning cornucopia. Toss down your pens, friends of change, the vending machines are ill and have eaten all the money. Funny. Money? Can‘t say I‘ve seen that, Honey.
Kevin Mulligan lives in Calgary, Canada where he writes both short stories and poetry. When not writing down his thoughts, he likes to play gigs with local musicians. You can often find him gathering inspiration as he hikes through wilderness that starts just past the city limits.