ingenuine, that’s what she likes to think about, when everything’s just graced with cholera, spizznose and variegated metal tins. be whole when the spartanman comes around to collect his dustpans, don’t forget to whisper everything you can into his ear… partake of silence, with a slice of lemon twisted. hurvy gurdy, m’lord. hurvy gurdy. spin this thwickle around your finger, twice, just twirl it. make it tight around your fingerjoints and watch that finger turn purple. watch it sparkly as that thwickle untwines and point your sparkly finger at the heavens, see it flash in incandescence. carve a hunk out of the star-road. greeving for what’s lost, ya. greeve yer sleeves with dust of hoyneydew. just parcel it all about the town, just parcel it. crawling down the gutter and watching the warblers twitch and purl in the gutterpunks’ maleficents. forego, you, the weakest of crocodile tears which twitch and punch your eyes out of plates. let those crocotears dry away, just vaporate. peace, you carolers.
fell asleep these nights past, had some dreams which bickled me. dreamed
I wrote a long sweeping narrative. forgotten upon waking. this morning, dreamed
car had been filled to brim with trash and old debris, garden stuff and and
garden gnomes, tires, beach balls, wooden trays of rusty nails and stuff,
old bicycle parts and more. neighbors super helpful. emptied out little tiny
car onto their lawn. then saw a flicker of flame, car flips over onto its
top! scary! neighbors have flame extinguisher, which I use to extinguish.
car seems all right, if a bit charred. charrrrrrred. silly omenic dreams.
eating omens for breakfast, with mushrooms and scallops.
divine your future!
Laugh your silly heads off!
curiouser and curiouser
heed the cry of the mophead man listen to those tender shivers running down
the sun all and all in I and I keep mowing creasing through green bread and
glass just to keep these starlings jumping hover now, deep quiet snails,
keep hover whistle now your bread and lover (please don’t land loverside
down!) fools and their hills keep dancing prancing with their inane chortles
even I can’t gulp their nonsense my gullet creaks in protest their green
pants just cry out for help all the fashionable just tear for weeping clutching
large scissors in their phantom hands (or trying) slip through and stab their
toes mine oncle, the oracular one, who leaps stamps his feet, and whistles
through his bristles has only one piece of advice for me: “Gurgenham, always
put your money down, up front, where I can see.” he scoops it up and flees
ignoring all my cannonshot and rue he left his paste-on bristles here behind
with a little stickum left, they stand upon my lip tarnished sentries for
my gaping mawth (I smell stew and curdled lindberger) knee-high me just sat
in corners read of nights and high castles magick danced upon the fingerstips
crept about in creepy places, singing damosel, damosel, why don’t you wait?
why don’t you wait for me? or even him? fountains of mirth, the day books
betrayed leaving all their ruse to leave the lies plain as May “It’s all
in how you pierce it, old son,” bubbled Mr. Con McCreeley, staff and cold
command still dribbling down his nose that’s when I slammed those libros
shut left my place to pace anew. no more climbing new culverts and cashews
peeping into deep and dark patios hunching soft over quivering amours inside
things are different, brainwise outside they’re the same as ever as ever they
ever ever were. “No never!” my chatterinrg leaves chirped out from lips so
bristly–keep on fucking, so the truckers say. this olde cornflower hat just
doesn’t do it, anymore. quivering voices on the telephone that have nothing
left to say. ho hum, ho hum, boil my drum. non sequiturs useless, foibles
and creeps, fumbles to the back of the queue, tired, hungry patois gurneys
to the fore. and what next? and what never? now to toss the chickenbones,
the gizzards? scatter the cards and muddied leaves, prance the I Ching upon
the mat, what’ve they got to say? in silence? not much. coins and bells and
baubles auspicious and terminal journeys, lizards and wizards and witches
and grues these magickal steps just don’t satisfy: one day the cover’s blown
and we all bluster counting small coins hid beneath our skin
perhaps it’s time to start walking in the dreamtime
grinnning jackanapes: there was a triangle sandwich beneath my arm and (smell
that crushed plastic!) the life is blur… the scandal crawls…… the paterfamilias
meets with lawscags… to see what we will see. who knows when everything
is bitten in pieces by fruit hounds scorching the fireberries and loftwafting
pillow cases through the air……. voices on the phone: electromagnetickal
wiggles, those eardrums are so old-fashioned; perhaps someday we’ll replace
them and hear things better.