We Build Your Own Room for Mom

We Build Your Own Room for Mom

A Traditional Hymn of The Church of the Brotherhood of the Unpaid (circa 2161)

Sung to the Tune of: “The Body of Brown John”

(As Channeled, Translated, and Transcribed by: Zack Wentz)

Knights and your family for a long-days-work, and battle dam-dust-clap-gangs to build His Feast defeated them in the flesh-to-dust. The shed blood of stray dogs while flying colorful and flashing her rough skin, bulging ribs.

GRUFFISH vote in the dust of your families, canvas tents and a smoldering firesound-team. If when the wind is bending the grass, dead grass is stiff, as if scorched line, cloths, and the sun’s heat with a net loss of His duties also bring darkness, desert locust.

“Place the wire in the end of the earth with the cantons,” He said. “Bare skin.” After He died, on the other hand, this guy you will know immediately. Coast’s snoring sound is open, and the sun can lead to molting.

Together, these landscapes will gather dust in your family.

And we were your Father, hunched near their fire and their bubble-pulses ready and willing-pig of their forkfuls, jellified started-pork, brown beard. His face fell, and then tents, trees in the shadow of the canvas walls inside the nose, and people going through the grass slowly as always the people do, but their shadows, shadow-owl looks, and buffalo roam.

And we started the construction of a mile, when peeled back, shovel and eyebrows, shovels and picks and shovels, and the car with the intention to hide the lines. He was inspired by the clouds, prepare a warning and feeling and peaches, beef and ham, and came to think of legumes and more, shovels and beams and handguns and miles ‘o wire spooled.

Enthusiasm for the work, they say, stupid, and they are called dogs behind them. Man until the ball is smeared with blood on their backs, others with sullen eyes. “This is a lesson for you,” He said. That the services-in-the-blood “does not matter.” Bloodthirsty Father-generation to generation to generation, and future generations forever, jealous of the people of the children-of-men line.

Since the coilpoof of smoke and heat waves, as your Father, He replied: “The adulterer’s smoke” also indicates “the fireland,” and “destroy it.” He was your Father’s smoking sun-hands. Nothing-specific time-format will be darkened, and the “wild life is born of fire.”

And the mountains, the fields, dust, dirt, the digits of your Father in His journey, and valleys of steam, the way your Father in the dust by the teacher. Only their eyes like a man, and live-in sunny, tanned.

We have genocide in the western regions, beginning of the long descent to the gunfire of moans and cries, the firelight, their shadows, skin-tents, bison and goats support.

Your Father, son and brother, Walter, or any child soldiers. He issued orders for serious-boy when I heard your Father, and His officers outlined in the battle of advisors. The boy in the gray lumps, misted eyes their cigars missed. The son-of-joy. When the moth’s camp was adopted by the grass and they encamped there by gulping frogs, the swamp lands were held in His palm. Each person, so His son and the boy’s shoulders.

We typhoid-and-day camps, teeming wild dogs and vultures, thousands of organizations in your Father for leaving forests, swamps, plains, black cloud in cleaning begin. You travel, gasping, worship evil’s son, and he said: “I will die.” Your Father replied: “No, no, it was not ”

Soon all the dogs-barking sound, sound echo voices, crocodile, validity and use of dead soldiers, lost and thirst within months of shrieking gulls and whirlpool, and sounds.

And sobs and His soldiers sobs, and it is to His house to Walter your Father, your Father sent by a straw in a resonance, crated dead grass, meadows and Clover, yellow primrose, and crate pried open with a buckle on His lips and blood-hill near the blackcommunity.

And your Father’s first wife, He sobs, reach for your brother’s body. He held her back in the railroad agents. Vaibhav obscure rock fall in the oil lamp in His Father-Spring look.

*

“O my soul, O son of my favorite sweet boy, I will not.”

scream.

And your Father from the train to the fogged areas, regions, who died on the grass and forest, and the heads of bison grazing in areas considered by the vapor.

Curl and your Father suave-cell by a wool jacket, and people’s cries in His sleep “ganaganya,” and the smoke of cooking meat and gunfire.

She and your Father, “a grisly murder as a child in each of brutes” who sit on the wealthy and “the public mind.” Yes, you, the public. “Read your ___” and “I want to make sure that she gave birth to you.” You are a rich man, will never be what you want.

Behold, your Father-city, city streets and dirt roads wander with His horse’s fault led to a thousand Mother Tongue road-city-car, city to discuss sparking, now all the countries in the city, and of all the oceans see your slides will be lost in the crowd, and all kinds of eyes, and knew that He sneers safeguards, the story itself, and that they are aware of and take it by force, and was active in the wallet-friend of His mind He thought was crazy, listen, “I will go to Hell. I can, you can.”

And your Dad loses Himself in distress and disorder, and horses, endless screaming and electricity, road, and the cobblestone streets are transferred to spark. The neighing.

Your Father’s day, when they were in the right places, and to understand their duties, so that when the law, by the force, let the fires of days dry land, will be sold all the goods He did not: it was also the day He’d distant-help provinces, sword, when they burn. And they fall in the last days and the days are evil-plan to cheat when drunk. Every effort was strangled, and there was little but playing poker and drinking whiskey with the time and trying to get comfortable in meligheli day-women, and when He came, and their illnesses are pregnant, smiled and said: “Animal.”

And their country’s late Father was not able to in any other way. Education factories where sheep and pigs and cattle in the region, the land of open ground in the backyard, for drying sheets at the end of the cooking. The air was present. Law and rivers choked with ships and steamships, fur traders. The cobblestone streets and across the country, butchers and haberdashers, Modi, hairdressers, these buildings, lye soap and calf-skin boots, hills, visible miles, pulled the ads.

And while a long time lasted, and the women curtseyed when they confess thy Father, and said: “Good morning, General,” while men with heavy beards and their hands and they would conspire. Cigar-hats, beaver-fur offered.

Father and brother home, passed under the bed and wept in the hallway. Was deserted. Sizzling cell with all His family prayers and the fear of death in His old toys. And then your Father-town to rent the room, walk around the house.

And He swore like a pistol-and-fire an infinite number of hours. The world stood still, and He knows why skin ages, the Father of the child neversettings. Ten end bar gun, His hand, confused flies, piles of dead animals, and people to create the collections, splashing His garment, bags, gloves, know its simple blood. He is now under the liquid in the pipe, is exposed and the sheets apart. Spill floors dry, while the men a thousand, thousand animals, with pitchforks hefted. Soft-pens were responsible for the skins.

There is an entry for the fact that He was not. That houses the shadow of the marriage, and He said: “You expect me to stay, I do not cottage?” Shortly thereafter, she said, “It’s definitely not a life within the boundaries of an applicant.” And after He saw a house on the explosive limits, and Father and His help in the hours immediately after, He, peeling knot under the sun, with 24 people hired in the rough, their skin and tendons of slime-colors and earth, when a man’s Father, while His mother with Him, looking vehicle, “I just hope it maybe slipping away,” and “I did not leak, and it can become a Father.” Small house, He is cold at night. “I rajhalapata room’s home in the water, but few, or on the roof of the building.” Or later when He had been ordered to keep the pressure on Him to His own soul to use.

And who said that the best mode is done at home, and His mother and younger-age-home in a long time, and was happy and said: “I want Spring.” The following year, He claimed that His Father was in debt-spread. “Trouble burden,” and many nights He insisted: “I do not believe home-favorite their children, as a safe place for me to want to keep.”

And so, after His grandfather and His mother’s Father and mother’s names allowed, then decide on a name. And if the swelling and your Dad grew up in near constant pressure on the end of the service, now your mom seen your brother-tombstone of a young man’s dust and bones, grasses and dandelions care by the old site, pratyarpita media, and how their fingers, because the provisions of the sculptors, gray. Observation and mother “may be published in time for the last pregnancy and resurrection-show,” said: “I’m not saying, however, I have something to a stone and plants grown to know your Father and His wife, month, and day of your birth, Mark’s grave lies just lost legs.” But the window open, His mother. No problem with noise. Wedding-Room childbirth.

And when your Father was held the day after He did so, His hand rags, chemicals, whispering to you, “deep breathing” with the taste of the time, the smell, He is convinced of their healing properties, and indeed, a boy and a boy, His hands soft and gentle hand right. “My age is not,” He said, “and never in my born days to change my economy.” Behold, your father and say.

And remember that you live in the early troops and wood, and spent His childhood with insects in the house behind the long grass often, and if I just go to the bush in the ground grew, but you and the boys in the neighborhood, we find that, Bird and the mouse’s head, and the other on the left, and the bones of infection, and mother of the children hidden in your pocket. Many times, parents’ voice close to His mother and father, managed to the fighting-window when the minimum SCREAM’ll make great debt that the injury complained of, barking or factory or hatred. He said, “Man, separate from life of an artist, how you murdered her legs way.” Night, and then put them in tears and wept, until they found that the number of men swarm. “I’m not happy with the stone.” And when your father was mud on His shoulder, hefted, heat, scratching His whiskers on your cheek and tickle your nose and sobbing into His shirt to keep Him happy. “Shhhhh my son, shhhhhh.” Hot air hair handled quietly.

Remember that morning, your Dad, your legs are awakened by the can. You laughed at how they run when they sing: “We build your own room for mom.”

Zack Wentz’s work has appeared, or is forthcoming, in New York Tyrant, Weird Tales, Black Clock, >kill author, Golden Handcuffs Review, decomP, Opium, NANO Fiction, Necessary Fiction, Mud Luscious, Nerve, 3: AM, Fiction International, Short, Fast, and Deadly, Mad Hatters’ Review, Swink, Word Riot, elimae, Vestal Review, Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine, In Posse, Pindeldyboz, Smith Magazine’s six-word memoir anthology, Not Quite What I Was Planning, and elsewhere. His novel The Garbageman and the Prostitute was published by Chiasmus Press. He is the founder and editor-in-chief of New Dead Families. http://newdeadfamilies.com/

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