and so the ceaseless pigeon cries, and eats his own words like menander or corspucacian the marauder. each tiny moment spirals out into a thousand heaping spoonfuls of glee, and eats its own. –i’ve a mind to creep around the stair–we say, and dance our way across the floor, creeping and rolling and sweeping all that cold muck away. opening up the closet door and letting all those moths be free, let go their cold and wooly chewings.
and what are we to make of despair and clamoring anguish? well, it goes out with the bathwater, to be sure! it’s quite certain that we’ve had enough of that, for the time being, and would much rather experience grand purbelows of pleasure and desire, mixed-up fancy like a dangling tooleewhit. there’s room enough in the pantheon for a dainty malapropister.
and so the grand experiment continues, bolstered maybe by the counter-weight production, the alter-slanted continuings of the mind. where do these words come from, if not Zanzibar or MilkandHoney or any of the thousand-and-one other danceinthehall beauteous paradisicles. (the v inscribed on my right middle-finger: folly or an accidental product of the delirious workings of the brain? visiting some typical gateway of misadventure and purloined prurience: avast ye puritans and eat your cakes at dawn, so the rest of us don’t have to spy your choke-filled faces!)
and on and on. but not for much longer today.