/ic/ - Artwork/Critique

Banana, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Ba-na-na: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth. Ba. Na. Na. He was Nan, plain Nan, in the morning, standing four feet ten in one sock. He was Banan in slacks. He was Naner at school. He was Musaceae on the dotted line. But in my arms he was always Banana. Did he have a precursor? He did, indeed he did. In point of fact, there might have been no Banana at all had I not loved, one summer, an initial man-child. In a princedom by the sea. Oh when? About as many years before Banana was born as my age was that summer. You can always count on a crab for a fancy prose style. Lassies and daddies of the tribunal, exhibit number one is what the seraphs, the misinformed, simple, noble-winged seraphs, envied. Look at this tangle of submissions.