Thirteen Ice Cream Flavours
Chocolate and telephone.
The number seventeen. Twelve. One two three four five six seven eight nine ten, eleven twelve. The number seventeen.
The dead body of a lavender homunculus. Rolled in figgy slime and topped with crunched spring onion slices made from Gallé glass.
Elizabethan oak logs marinaded in peat bog fluid, from somewhere in the middle of Ireland, topped with sparkly flakes of cinnamon stardust.
Seventeeeeeeen astrological symbols of weeeeeeeeeed extracted from the kneeeeeeeeee of Valerie Singleton's drunken nanneeeeeeeee.
Minty twimsy cohrl todo todo.
The long legs of a daffodil on a slow rain-soaked march through the French countryside accented with hazelnuts that have been gently aroused by the smoke from burning hedgehog spines, topped with grated pineapple nipple tips. This cone vibrates to the gramaphone music of Mendelssohn's Italian symphony.
Two atomic clocks that haven't been dancing all night in Berlin. The music, I hear the rays of music.
Unkittens feet, marinaded in warm unseawater. Oh, how the unkittens moan in the foamy unsea, like my long dead pet friends. Unkittens in heaven. This is served drizzled with transparent yellow vanilla sauce.
The essence of tragedy and fire. This cone is on fire. This cone is on fire. This cone is on fire.
Thirteen ice cream flavours. Take your pick!