On the C Train the Black Object Ponders Amuzati's Family Eaten in the Congo

Cut the adults. Huck-um dun the chest, the deceased lumps. In the story of edible blacks, hacked and splayed on lattice, how am I to finish the dishes with all this dining in the fields of my instance? Unremit by browned lung, blisters are blisters, dry by sun, bucks into bits. Lattice, works: business is business after all, but did the Black-Back-Fat deserve its end like the tic I popped? Sure, if the tic could, it would visa out of grip. But, sorry, the sweet, sweet spleens! In the Magazine, NYT, a teeny pink baby teeters on the crease of a big palm, cream and light: Daddy! I am so hungry for some Pyg. Such hunger, subwayed, the crust on the bittle lack's head skin, where hair, a spiral spurns beneath flesh. Ring worm, rung'un, crunk of nap. Mother to baby: Shut up! Don't touch me. Suckcandysuckit. C'mon now chile'.