help! i’ve grown a third crown!

oar sew tha pyrite sez!
understandably vexing.
sleeping permanently in two places at once. how’s that happen? well, that would be telling. and now i’m in a third new place. what happened to the old simultaneous place #1? it’s occupado, my dear onion. and all the music of heaven is piped in through the doror or winindow or flueue.

id it true? are the arms getting bluer? i mean redder? is the sun’s grim beat pounding out a new dolorous crayon?

though i may have a third eye, smackdab, you understand. that’s more than enough mutation for me, thankyouverymuch.

some wandering pasty things

Ogilvie Transistorsides, long-exiled from his roof-top garrett in the center of that hustle-bustle, that queer and dancing turnstile of a city–Bohemia–longed for a far off day when the birds would stop their singing. On a cold day, driving the blighters indoors, the noise was almost bearable. Still, though, he filled his ears with tongue-twisters and chinese puzzle boxes. Ogilvie Transistorsides had been to the opera once. Had heard that famed lady plumb the depths of her glottals and grackles. Even so, blowing smoke painfully out of one eardrum and sucking on his baleen pipe, Ogilvie Transistorsides didn’t know how much longer he could live in his caramel-colored (and flavored) teepee. It was lovely in there, with the hookah and the curvy throw pillows amongst which a score (at least!) of curly maids might cordially and intimately acquaint themselves with Ogilvie Transistorsides shattered and lonely frame. Alas, the curly maidens had not yet descended upon this humming and paradisiacal spot. Perhaps they had not noticed his ad in the Daily Gnat.

Hookahs AND pillows await!
Contact O. Transistorsides for DETAILS
Ph. 213452 & 3/8
(No flappers please!)

Underlying the stench of birdsong which permeated all and indeed every light fixture and cranny, there was a dread and unyielding hum. This hum–which at one time Ogilvie Transistorsides thought that he had sourced at the barbershop quartet just 20 yards sou’southwest; a well-lobbed potato had eliminated that theory, just as, years before, six quarts of orange jello and an onion had dispelled another eroneous assumption–would be the death of him, or at least the dearth of him, he swore. Twisting in agony upon his sumptuously embroidered pillows, while simultaneously admiring the tacky yet quaintly charming string of paperdolls strung along the apex of his tipi, Ogilvie Transistorsides pondered his (relatively) short existence and what strange circumstances had brought him to this pass…

Five days prior to the death of his Illustriousness Lord Hyram ParSnickety and his entire cadre of curvy (and curly!) concubines aboard the floating (and flaming) deathtrap that was Nimrod’s Ski Lodge, Ogilvie Transistorsides appeared on the scene, to the slight discomfiture and inconveniencing of his mother, who had been planning a rousing game of whist for that very afternoon. She was a woman who loved her whist. Ogilvie Transistorsides’ father, Poncy, liked to remark to the greengrocer that his son’s instincts for calamitous interruptions was second to none. Unparalleled, in point of fact. Indeed, Etheldreda Taup had just laid out the tea cakes when Ogilvie Transistorsides announced his imminent arrival. Needless to say, (though I say it anyway) Mrs. Poncy Transistorsides was a trifle put out and vowed never to let Ogilvie Transistorsides (or his FATHER!) inconvenience her in suchlike manner ever again. Not so difficult for the Transistorsides the Younger, but his father slowly withered in the face of maternal dismissal. Ogilvie Transistorsides (a carefree youth, to be sure) merely played with his Bunny Wunnikins and Toy Boat Tug-Boat Tim, blithely unaware of his parents’ ever increasing drang.

some time ago.

I have some weird people living in my town. but that makes it a pretty town and all the sausages are having sausage dances.

even the canned operas sound nicer in the summer time, with their blaring vibrattos and conciliatory feedlehosen. i stood under a tree. that helped me think of things. the trees were like spackle., or rather, the light shinging through the trees leaves was like spackle. or rather the lighting shings through the treaves, landing on ground like spackle. or pollyuna. or polysmudgem. or yugi eller. that histrionic guy with the spoonbending blather.

juice never tastes as good three weeks from now. that’s why i drink it right away. my cackle is filed to bursting with ‘weird’ libros. mabye i just need a ‘normal’ one. does anyone have any ‘normal’ recs? that would be neat.

the eyes have it

would an eyeball fall butter-side down? or will the carousel keep spinning? me, i’m liking the brass rings that you have to toss in the clown mouth, even though the short ones can’t reach.

well, i was short once.

who was short ever? sad no-brass-rings.

punctured then like a well-traveled balloon this hyper-fragmented dashio is, or, who. what, why.
yellow’s what i’m thinking of. right. now. or maybe food, but only in the most generalized sense.

which eyeball do you prefer?