nopmo designer

languidly, some say, the beastie
(crawled from neath the gutter)
eats his mealworms, yum!
uncle federico, that scoundrel,
has some balloons to show us,
though, what for, we can’t say.
piping craven sounds throughout,
that harpsichord eats words–
no one can get an ear out.
triangulate the buried treasure.
there’s heaps of corpuscles in there.

but some say the words of gore
and pet the ould beastie–yowch!
spiny hair that brades the hands
is it some dainty porpentine?
or rather a delicado rhinopero?

seems the bastions been seething.
mandatory lashes for the fourth

barrelling along like gangbusters in the woodshed–something NARSTY in thar

pouring out the sweepitudes, ya. can’t break open the head with a munch, but all’s capital scarpy. will the nat ever….? jiggling continues to frebile the oaksters

or suppose the moop doesn’t ache? flaut that sausage, gnawer! that’s a ticket to indgestibles, the cavalcade of moonstruck bohemiants, deviuncles. monocular pursuits grab my cold shoulder.

or alternately: eating ONE godcicle

i’m sure, if the paternoster fails, no one casts about for g’nesha or sredni vashtar or unka legba

For my dear friend, Eichimus, et al., and whoever else might have read this mammoth DFW tome and is still interested, regardless.

Here is a detailed description of the first draft of David Foster Wallace’s monster novel, Infinite Jest.

I only know two or three people that I am sure have actually read this book. (Has CP read it more than once? Note to self: ring up.)

Makes me wonder if I would ever have the fortitude to actually persevere through anything longer than 20-30 pages. (Hell, there are six line poems that I’ve been revising for years now.)

And for something that’s actually more my speed: the Codex Seraphinianus, which I think that I’ve linked to in some deep distant past, but it seems worth linking to again.

Actually, this is the link to the actual book: too bad I don’t have the money to spend on this thing…

all kinds of monkeys win a prize

Whoso pulleth this word from this mouf will be the trueborn Queeb of Llywernog!

puttering about the mindscape, nahp. finding only old oily cloths and battered portmanteaus fillt with socks withal. and the thumpyer said that all the seas would crease their eyes and drink the firment up. do see the wip or thum that gord or blahs the nahtty.

golden daredevils plummet: defenestrated all. kiss their gold-heads and close their pore pore eyes. feel the grummy nuppit, when all the yold party-favors call to collect their wares. askulap the telefonical: feel its shugry grip round about yer nekk! oh, bleeve me! please.

jumpin on the ropes, i’m there. and not there. feel that crass crushing of harps. twang the heart right out of ya. i’m so so so-ing. feebleminded and crackpated, ulp, goes that big-throated murmur. fell eyelids crouching on the scarpment. weezel and dodoizer combined. almost, saullike needing some sweet melodiary to calm the seething furnace. and where are the words when you need them to ring forth with bright song?

lord knows, there’s enough milkweed floating around out there. dash it all!

******The Pinocchio Theory*******
grumbling, nnit.
who’s sittittitting in the corner now?
my dreams have all (every last bolshy one) fled to the attic. can’t even peel back a rash and find them there.
so’s the wicked shorn cat sliding on the moon?