Gluey En-do-derms and Tupperware

A blue glassblower’s blue sky tinkered with opal and sapphire. The man in the hat awoke awakening, his hat resting on the nightstand next to his gibbon’s-bag (Hylobates) and a pair of lace-up Oxfords. A gluey en·do·derms and some sort of sticky caramel jujube, these he found clawed to the inside of his bed-sheets. Allow me to boil you a tin of sausage, she said his mother said. (Allow me to pepper it with mace, allspice and fennel, a curial of beetroot and the yellowish yellow saffron. Allow me to serve it to you in a Tupperware bowl reheated straight from the oven. Allow me to ladle warm savory curds of it into the cloister of your mouth. Please allow me the pleasure of watching you eat, your teeth gristmilling the tinned sausage into a fine delectable talc. Allow me to wipe the gruel and Porter from your lips, the neb of my tongue cocking the stork of your throat). The man in the hat’s mother boiled everything in the same pot, brining and peppering the dishes with packets she’d pilfered from the Serb diner across from the Waymart next to the aqueduct.