Author: shawn

rememberizing the meat

where am i now? with the bloodcicle stained withal, eh? no, nothing so gory, or shall we say, un propos. but to be sure, there’s been a real dearth of original thinking around these parts of late. hard to take the last gasp lying down (or maybe that’s the only way to take it…)

enter the fist, or some ninja-flavoured monstrosity like that. whirring stars and pointed clown noses. uncertainty, like a cavalcade of munchkins running down the stairs, is just tumbling every which way. who knows where the corascading novitios are headed? damn, it would be nice to be fucking awesome at something or other: basket-weaving, or bookbinding or beekeeping or just any old thing.

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
prevaricator.

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…