Spiro and Angus

a half-page play by Platypus Productions and Lavishing Dirrhea

Spiro: Green typing lego hard to eat some thoughts (not) words and ingested red and yellow 96 cent matchbox cars. Lasing grey and greyer. Wire and buffali are eating in the bulbs in my eye sockets.

Agnus: Yellow visions of a long lost yesterday gone before it is remembered. A slow prayer for some joy, some meaning, purposee. Forgotten (Picks up a champagne and hands one crystal glass to he and Spiro.) We suck, goddammit, but man do we know how to depress properly.

S: Depress, who's depressed? Real life does not have to mirror genus and the vice can be well verse poetry. Or is poetry really just when de poe peoples try? Anyway, poetry and prose and plays and an all-encompasing purple haze don't have to be like real life. Let us wax phoetically on happiness and joy (I remember Joy. She is love. She is also stuffed into the mouth of a sleeping bag. Her own fault. Joy. Pfah)

A: Joy, my friend, has gone the way of the dodododo birds. It is an endless pursuid, circularly winding it's way in tighter and tighter circles. And finally disappearing like Little Nigger Sambo. My friend, it isn't the poetry as much as it is the waxing.

S: Yes, on and off as it were.

A: I suppose so.