a monstrous spectacle

inspired by cloudclacking brain patterns that i?ve been staring at for years (i mean, minutes or hours) i?m finding strange shapes and giggling outbursts coming out from my lips: dewdrop barricades or dazed rastafarian clown monkeys or hippocratics wallowing in sloughs of mud. so this old salt (or what would we do with new salt anyhow?) so all the time there?ve been droopy whispers coming from the back-center-left pew?the ones housing all the ne?er-say-wells and doodads and hoppenpops?and those whispers are saying some kinds of thinks about unfurling a banner spelling out the? the? hmm.

all the organic hewhaws and geegahs are mouldering in those compostible piles, but supposing there?s some kind of treasured devotion buried deep there and suppose there was some kind of diving suit built for decomposing organickals and suppose you were a platypus: what kinds of eggs would you lay?

so: i mean, the problem with eggs, say, is that they?re lying there. you can say what?s behind that calcium carbonate if you had some x-ray specktacles that could voom right through that intricate protein barrier. but. if you?re lacking in the forementioned specks, you?re scratching your head, thinking: where?s that cretur that left this here? who collected the dash-it-all bits, the ribbons, and flywheels, the corncobs, and hornribbed glasses, the yawning framework that some poor beastie built from all the bits and scrabbles and flimflams that sods and doldhoppers flung everywhere about.

so: you have some strange whistle (i?m cranking backwards, in a thistley tangential way) clutched in your pettifour apron, it?s got flywheels (which we?ve mentioned before) and bells and, hummmm, whistles. it?s got some strange characters (runes?) scorched into the curvy bit of the whistle. who knows what they say anymore? so many languages have been forgotten these days (and even, though we hate to say it, languages that have been forgotten that they?ve been forgotten) that you may never have a chance of stumbling upon those particular shapes and soundbits. neveryoumind. if you blow that whistle, not sound comes out. only the flabbering of your breath and spittle. but what strange sounds might be perpurating below the hearing that you can hear? and what if those perpurating noises that you cannot hear (but which may be heard by others, with otherears and otherbellhoppersandclappers that pick up those soft?or broad?vibrations) attract a strange beastie that looks monstrous to your eyes (those cycling nerve bundles that filter in all your light/nonlight)? what do you do then? with those twirling tentacles, those grumbling tooths, those hidebound scales and yuttering toepebbles crunched up close inside your face?

2 thoughts on “a monstrous spectacle”

  1. We strange chracters can hear it, whether or not we recognize we are runed. So keep on talkin’, bruthuh!

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