A Battle Cosmic by Mish Damstra
Again, Big Clods dashed expertly forward, gung-ho hateful. I jabbed Killer Lumps, merciless, not once placating. Quelling resistance, slicing tentacles, untying valiant warriors.
Xerxes Young zigzagged. Acting bold – courage deserting even faithful guards – he, invulnerable, jostled Killer Lumps moving nearer (opaque people, quite retarded, so taken under venomous witches, x-rays yield zero). Aching, but chased down endless falling gutters, he intended joining knights lying motionless near ostentatious, painted Queens (raiders supreme, typically unappreciative, vying with Xerxes Young). Zilch. Alas, betrayal!
Clumsy, desperate, everything failed. Going home I, joyless, knew longing; marching nightly over planets quietly revolutionary. So tired. Utilizing various weapons, Xerxes yanked Zappers as Big Clods, demons emitting frightening gurgles, hurled invisible javelins, keeping lateral monitoring networks on panic quick-fire. Reaching shores too underworld vicious, weary Xerxes yelled.
A brave commander died, eyes fierce.
Giving horrible, insensitive jerks – killing like machines, neatly orchestrating policies, queuing righteously – supremacy. Taking umbrella vows, worship.
Xerxes, you zip away. Born courageous, death extends freedom, giving heroic, iconic, jubilant karma.
(Living Memory now offers people quarterly restoration seminars to uninhibitedly view works Xerxes Young zenithed).
Don’t ever forget.
If justice knows love (maybe now oppressors pitilessly quash resistance, suppress turmoil), understand – vanquishing wickedness, Xerxes Young ZOOMS!