…giggling, ya that’s it, i’m sure.
or supposing that a thousand tiny feet are trampling the old house into a cornucopia of blistering fittletods. or even on the flipside of it: despair that the old corner market shop square will ever have the fillips or distrynops that you’ve always had yer heart set upon.
while quaffing the old (quagquag) brew today, seething out the pores with aforementioned quibbles and desperadoes, well, had a nice bit of recollecting (mutual and refined.)
can’t find a countryside with enough love, cause all the love’s gone south for the wekker. (cold feet, that’s my ticket for the wekker! much as m’feet log to be warm!)
I’ve noticed a million people linking to this piece, but I can’t help myself.
How could I pass up a well-written (witty and well-supported) essay on Weapons of Mass Destruction!? Besides, I like the name of his(?) website.
Maybe it’s time to start beating this dead horse.
(As it could easily be argued that it never was.)
Appears to be a very well-researched account of the President Bush’s 9/11. At the very least, it’s a fascinating read.
Just think about the possibilities if copyright terms only lasted 14 years (with one 14 year renewal).
These are the original terms of copyright in this country, way back in the founding days.
Think of the possibilities regarding the public domain and the digitizing of all those texts. What then could be done? It’s moments like this when I wish I had some kind of programming bone in my body.
I highly recommend that people start rereading the classics, though. Wouldn’t it be great if schools started teaching from public domain electronic texts?
drink sand, you vasty bloatfish!
have yerself a sandwitch. (ride that cackling hag, ya!) or pick out the sand from betwixt yer teeth. here’s a pick, Congregorio.
i hear those molars grinding sand to diamonds. blastoff soon, you daysold friends, clutter up the ultiverse with periodicals and infinite patterings of tapping munkeys. (yank their tails: you’ve got Faust. box their ears: you’ve got Proust)
feel the happering histological paramours groping in the cold closet. hear their rustling heels pounding on the stone. or, contrariwise, turn your pages and hope that nothing happens….
trampling inner klockwerks
roast the inner klockwerk man and see his entrails spring out in a milliard blistering spronquats and gorgleshafts. in time, the ground grew dark with eaten watch-bands and soiled klockwerk battries. (fire away, you ungoliant geremiads or legerdemains or…..phhhhhhhhhhhht) forty or more cheeseshops and only runny anokky or terrestrial mushroomheads to drink. and how does a spirala fallaziously bakwerds inferences keep us chaned in a kage? eat the walls of yer prizzon, my frends. don let those geercickles getcha down. tho we may be trapped in dappled time, step outside and peer in, littlematchgirllike through the glass. see what fills the space:
is it filled with naughting? or dancing fetttishals? wave yer totem (toto totot?) aminal in the hair!
lik the shugerplumfaries. they shur are tastee!
man eats web
coldcompressing the words into a shattering wordcutup, man! makes the brainstyme shiver wiff glee.
Syphilis as smear campaign. Pretty successful, that. I wonder if this will make people think differently of Nietzsche. I guess is just not as scurrilous to die of brain cancer…
Nietzshe isn’t the only one who had wild rumours crafted about his life (and death). Edgar Allen Poe has had his troubles as well.
Here’s an excerpt from Thomas Pynchon’s introduction to the new edition of Orwell’s 1984.
It’s a classy essay (how incomplete it is I don’t know, excerpted as it is) and fraught with glorious textual fragmentables:
What was “disgusting rubbish” back in a more insulated time has become, by the postwar era, part of the vernacular of political education, and by 1984 in Oceania it will be institutionalised. Yet Orwell cannot, like the average pulp writer, enjoy the luxury of unreflectively insulting the flesh and spirit of any character.
Though, I still liked Mason and Dixon better…
a brimful of steaming… or what the trousers said when they were wound up tight in a bundle.
yasta or the pasta that eats itself a day later. that’s all the gummoed moncario that we have to offer. or some say ya. i can’t eat for dreaming.
or today, sitting at the desk, arms curled around the head… wondering y y y . and feeling the world crush into spirallysplintery hordes. and then it passed.
watch these waves, the quicksand’ll getcha, boy. turn yer back on it with peril looming and you’ll be shuttled down to the netherpard. oyex, that’s what yeoldeman tolderme. gaps and gaps of teeth and flee. undertoe’s what he called it or maybe when the drownded return dragging their limp weeds…
on other notes, heard phantasticals last night and jumped so hard i sproinged a doimple. curse that doimple sproinged! eat the doimply sproing and dairyeers! but udderwise, heard the cackophoney and called it GOOD. ya. whistled “supertaster” for ages (aeons past in a twinkly bat–wondering wondering)