Ninety Degrees of Spanish Wine

A hundred pounds of cake on the shore left to dry out and be devoured by pigs. It was left here by the left handed fielder named Penguin Classics. He had a hair style best called Sun Invading the Moon. He a classic piglet. He a fried boy with a man's face and pectorals shaped by manual labor. The pecs of a roadie. He was a fantasy born from the blues. Born from the white snow. Born from the hole-in-one where golf balls go to die. He had sweet Penguin style jackets and a way with words. He could slice you a slice of melon without a knife or a melon. Just only words to work with. To play with. He a sweet road leading into a mess of twigs wetted down by constant rains. He of the sugar-free glaze. Strawberry vines twisting up the bones of the prism guard. Rotten squid on the shores attract young twisted wizards. They know magic. Squid sense. Liquid milk of the upside down sunset. Spilled like overcooked bean juice.