An Epic. The Vicious Circle Of The Couch Potato.

Written and illustrated by Cheryl Penn and Marie Wintzer.

GET OFF!!!!!

NO!!!
GET OFF!!!!!
NO!!!
I SAID GET OFF!!!
AND I SAID NO NO NO NO NO NO!!
There's no escaping a Couch Potato.
They hunker down next to one
round and knobbly on the chair
growing fatter and uglier every day.
They wear your lipstick and
ladder your stockings.
MAN! I long for lying low.



Your Lip / Stick

so let's go couch fishing

Toss the baited hook

out of the closest window

Real Life Heroes, Pizza,

Smells like Napalm, Tastes like Chicken.

(an old sock)

I didn't know Couch Waters

were so deep

and cheap this time a year

Did I say, did I say NO?

Subsection two

warning to all couch potatoes

upground, underground

boiled, braised, fried or peeled

skins on skins off your days are

numbered

lumbered 

with the baggage you bring you're

not wanted

stunted

lip - 

-stick-

back

-slack

Mack the knife

strikes twice

s-p-l-i-c-e

you're done..

Fried and peeled,

the couch Waitress is gone

and gone too far

Back at Couch Potato School, where

they teach you to 

Lick

Plates

Empty

(    )

Stop poking Common Sense or

I'll miss tomorrow's pillow marathon,

the oddest

Avalon

Couch

Crouch

Cage

Encaged Enraged

But the passing is sweet.

Sounds smell stronger

more fragrant on the tongue,

the shadows grow whiter as

the ink of madness fades 

into

ether.

Hump day too

will dawn,

The Pouch Philosopher

mumbled 

through his rusted electron tube.

Remotely un-controlled

in muddy waves (not unlike

Potter's Clay)

of grey,

Gully groove to

nowhere in particular.

Discovery

By Prof-Med-Phil

The Worm Hole in which

Couch Potatoes form

is filled with worms.

Squirms.

And I 

spoke

to 

1??

Or at least I thought

I heard it 

skillfully screech

in my Daydream.

The thin line

between awake and the ceiling

seems to shorten

as days get longer

(for all we know a saving grace).

Still.

For them worms it's all the same,

silk or muck

your butt's just stuck.

Magenta Crash

Night Spills

Butt still stuck.

The space between

the ceiling and couch grows thin.

I breathe suspicious air 

Night falls

Daylight retracts,

Ink is spilt into her 

slight

light.

The cough potato glowers. 

How many hungry moons

reclined

on the fostering inside-

arm?

Many, 

or too few to recall.

Those Lotus-eating Roots

poking through Moleskine.

Wound-up paths

dry as Bone.

See, a breeze and they

tumble off

in a flush of Decay.

On the other side: the faintest hint

of bloom.

To late to sate

The appetite once filled

With

Feelings unknown

Countless coffee cups

Endless swirling words in worlds of

Lemon grass chicken stir (fry)

A knock -   a bang -  a grate on bone

Ripples on water turned to stone.

Pictures on screen

are traveling that Road of Déja-vu

I hit pause but the blur 

lingers.

Sitting on orange peels

I can't feel 

their familiar tickle.

Strange.

Skin must grow thicker when

eyes blink reluctantly,

a stagnant attempt at 

catching

the drowsy slipper

feet once shod with grace

fleet of bone marrow

ample arms that held

the light on grasslands aloft.

The walls of the world

Ring

With shrouded Orange Sent

From minds and feelings

Awash in  Magma Magenta.

She lived in the see-ling

space between

Living and not living

For so Eon

That the roots

Were orange strong

But today

Or yesterday

There was Magma Magenta enough

To pull free.

- - - -

The Vicious Circle Of The Couch Potato is about being stuck between time and space, between dream and reality, or as Cheryl would say, between life and death, living and not living. Dreams can give you wings. They can also tie you down to a place where time and space do not exist.