Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof

Morpheme Tales

In Morpheme Tales, Superintelligent sea cucumbers on February 5, 2011 at 8:10 pm

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One

I Flossed: The Story Of Watergourd Bacon and His Quest For A Single Second

or

What Ebenezer Told Me Afterward

Skunks are here, living, breathing, like carps tossed by the red hot-bucket into wind tunnels. Is that what you were asking? Was the Pope or other like-minded ecclesiastical authority, small red leather disk noggin-top, three sheets to the wind on an arc of hand sugar? Or was that absolute boggle-de-terre, sil-vous-plait? Mais oui de er ikke mye venn du weißt worüber ich spreche aunque, yo tomo la gracia de las tiendas en los ojos: Skippy comes, he is pure fire. His speak is the green stink of ice. His lips are the split wieners you long for on a camp-out or at a ball game or alone in the bathroom at parents’ friends houses where all the extraterrestrials lodge in your crawfish racquet. Campfire skeleton silhouetted in the sinking bulb of sun going down dirt-wise harpies in the lectern. His lungs popped out like a slippery balloon. Whack me with a capstan.

Launch bark seldom seems so tranquilizer freedom. Know what I mean? OK. So. One mendicant and another Medici sprung from bedpans like a narcolept’s ashtray, the golden honk of a May Day parade flourishing like Granddad’s hipbone in the apoplectic and apocalyptic Sturtevant.You scallywag! I know your delicious silver-papered buns are stuck to the roof of my mouth and it takes lice for a walk on the salty pier. Television is so sucky except for the electronic snow-storm of the Macy’s Day Parade. Proboscis of rubber, seize my swollen snorkel and rise godward! Latex sparking globe of extracurricular activity. π! Sneaky aren’t you, you little devils? Come ¥ or come shiny nickel, come elbow’s flying lazily like geese, and come ©, I will always be the way you walk when your skin is talking to the Wiz. Wise men are recognizable because hot lean freaks are dancing beside my weeping Proctor and Gambles, beside my beans. Wizened old men gobbling like turkeys, it is so shameful, for a few naughty dark logs in wax paper. Help us throb like oxen. Help me throb like oxen. Soiled oven mitt. Water-stained wall paper. Bathtubs torn out and tossed into the stairwell. There are a conglomerate of them. The smell of dookey. The hum of blue-bottles. The building has been condemned by the Supervisor, 88.14/the square root of Stockton, California. The Pocket Doctor can help you, why, it soothes burnt glove compartments and trots out gorilla-juice on cue. Stick it brother in the fixture which waits like a panther in the salt cellar. It’s easy to remember Lot’s wife at the Apollo butt-humping the regulator with its shiny chrome and yellowish tubes. The way in Autumn the tree’s burnt carcass is a fine salver for the cake of the expiring sun? Belt-buckle pudding with the legs all in it? Sampled pry-bar quit his night job, luxus, luxurious Luxor on the cabbage-colored stomping grounds of the lights of the ancient city in the air like the oil spot on the asphalt. To rub it I mean, that feeling. Locus dei: funny laxatives get the ketchup all over. Mealtime in Alcatraz. That is the dark bumpy, the dark bunny rabbit of the soul; sold to do brinkmanship double duty. The sloppy liquid pop of a cork. The sound of sucking. The void. “What happened to my lunch ticket?”

A ski mask made of slices of smoked ham was all in for the grave marker made of gray Vaseline, margarine, urethane or maybe cork and small marble from the smoldering wicket of green, soaking Spain, where the middle-ground is unstable on an atomic level. The breaching of a cracker makes crumbcake out of us all. Spoken like a true belt sander, gleaming weasel, carpet faggot, carport gerrymandering lynch-pin. Fucker? Sadder than 40,000 pounds of crumpled shine whistling silently through the air and it’s there, in mid-air, between Heaven and Earth where no one is but me (falling like a parachutist non parleil), Watergourd Bacon, leaning in, cocking one ear, putting it real close, hearing the noises it makes when Shih-huang Ti bakes tacks into the translucent but slightly spit-moistened and hence sticky cough lozenge. It goes like this: Pocketypocketypocketypockety PING! drink, pocketypocketypocketypockety PROVERB SAUSAGE! I rely on the broken bones of a rabbit for entertainment (I watch it like TV): rattlebag.

Two

Alka-Seltzer’s Made Of Feathers: Dirty Codfish with the Human Face Mystery

or

Alka Helter Skelter Seltzer

Ichabod Petrone rode lizards for carport socks into the Great Duct Tape, a menagerie of lamps and mitochondria. Ach, blarney in a Sasquatch, he thought, I’m rectifying the annual budgie, its little yellow scintilla vanquishing with the arousal of the moon pie. Later than that the therapeutic lustre of the brimstone began to wear off, leaving nothing in its wake but petroleum jelly and the still-smoking carcasses of sea monkeys or prawns. Make-believe bathwater accosted him in the hall closet where wicker was kept for killing bees. Smeller of dried fish where the wickets were pulled out and tossed into the grape-coloured gas bag of the ocean? Where the prattle pooled up? Maraschino La Blueprints remained out from behind the pole of bruised blue smoke, polishing a Polish sausage freezer-burnt remnant. She smiled. Lax behind, poled Ichabod himself, his enormous unusual hand pulsing in the purple light, with silvery highlights. The Martian took no right turn when available was left soaking in an old time brine vat. Only where the sprinkled murk folds and leaves us wide awake in the brimming vault, do I yield to the treat, to the threat or tread of deadly forts, forests, whatever. Read me loud and clear. He poured her corset. Mount Aetna? He rolled in the stinging. They lucked out frolicking for Portugal in one clean tube that ran half-way to translucent fishing line, a big ball, knotted and blue-green, a mean spray in the watered lime. And they were happy there.Upscale on a dandelion, a bun-cracking pin cushion of fingernails was flapping like a yellow sail. Snapping like a great, grey cloud of clock-iron or tire. A stripe of purple came in it. Gavel-brown syrup on tenterhooks gave them both gauze to try on in place of dying and the West or chewing on jewelry. Suddenly the glass walls broke together, pieces bursting like the wind on a crepe or a rain of beads. Summary glances provoked the obvious, the what-already-nuts of the butter packets: borax clusters in the Nile. They sank shoulders into the liquid frocks. Limpid wands of oven mitts swamped with crusty bacon launched out of a thermos. The launched organism was caught in the crease of a crooked capstan. Oregano, olives, organs, Oregon, original…perhaps yaks or…what? Narraganset? Wart! Wart! he crawled on her over the clank of cartwheels, the rang-out dye from a brand new scarf. Banks curried favors from the syllogisms and/or escarpments they carted off the loading dock.

Nutmegs in tan sacks smelling dusty and yet fragrant, thick silver salvers having on them shot-heaps of coriander, (a bamboo pocket-watch ticking off seconds, i.e. time was existing), a mound of paprika like rust scraped from a World War II Jeep, cinnamon hill on blue silk, pulling the sky down, the sun like a center-piece slowly scooting, too. Slowness after slowness and then—a smattering! A cut-glass bowl full of leghorns, lilies, and light, breaking on the rough skin of the dried and hardened concrete. In Egypt it followed by xylophone cracking. That’s what every morpheme looks locked down on.

Three

Planks of Dirt

Clustered like salmon eggs around the blue fire of a plasticized pamphlet, the crooks feed you a dark platter and treat you to a boiling hot cup of black water that smells like pepper but tastes bitter as unripe almonds mixed with salt and the rubber off a basketball. Waking up into the dirt, sparkling, aqueous, cool and refreshing as a broken pencil stub in a bowling alley. Bandsaws treacle lemonade. The park tablets dissolve in wooden water, in a tank, dissolve the tank, dissolve the water itself. Copper tubing. Tugboats. Nor causes nibbling to be a disease that eats into watertanks pink with crayfish setting suns on golf tees, glistening and moistened where the gigantic lollipops spin circles into the digging of dark dirt scents: make me a good sauce from it. Dirt is not dirt if it comes from stinking chaps. The Rancid pay their bar tabs, their barbers, Babar, Berbers and Lincoln Savage Junior Horny Toad with leather coins that reek of madness. Make me a lanky sauce that is hard and flat like a board, neither plank nor cardboard. That being said, red paint symbolizes the you reading as being hung upside down by a an “Algerian named Raoul.” He is whacking you mercilessly and mercifully on the pincushion bank of a river of galvanized nuts that wrinkle by like insects. With a flyswatter, that is. Rolling upward into the unnatural green of the upside-down sky river, your glass-bottom boat lets go of the lettuce, fresh, crisp, slightly white like the snow or like the down in your inside-out jacket. Skis whiz by nothing but textiles. “Nord Tinkus.” Nordoun Sihanouk hung his own: gravity bells of the moon’s silver in the bamboo eaves on next to nothing left but his own knowing. Convenient. The King’s favorite show, pre-empted. Consisting of mathematics.Birdsong is a clock that is hung in the dark stain of a clown’s shadow.

Four

The Duckling Pump

Barbeque A. Gravytrain touched down at LAX on the last flight that night from Valladolid, the Cid in his lip-smackin’ satchel hung hip-high to three turkeys in the morning. Or in the water. The rigmarole was de rigueur all the way to Alaska. Cracking open some trace elements in the asphalt bar, a Milanese acrobat with a dumbek accosted a winking knot with some highway yogurt and a hot pickled okra spear. Coulda been asparagus, coulda been spareribs. Fact was, it was an okra spear: hot, pickled, plain as day, plain as the nose on your face, as the rose sprouting on your washbasin, as your ration of melting crockery, bacon rashers. (Little did he know, a cachet of razor blades made crocheted casseroles into owls, crunchy as hash with age in the bathrooms of rank tenements, closet doors chattering with the seed pods of moving counter-clockwise, hippy bead-thick, shuttering all the horror in, malign. “I’m talking about cockroaches here!” he used to shout, red in the face as a breadstick, broken underfoot on green indoor-outdoor, found after the banquet by a ferocious Sacre Coeur-carrying waitperson and swept under the parquet.)Barclay approached the bench, carrying an armadillo as round and piquant as an after-hours oyster stewing in its own long juices. Hello car key, he said gravel voice verb mallet of Australian make. Minute Maid, he whispered sanctimoniously, regurgitating an olive and a copy of the New York Review of Books, ending a centuries-old doctrinal dispute in Mahayana Buddhism, a colloquy of matchbook covers, Crisco, Daktari and Mildred-ointment. Sacre Bleu! squealed the microscopic Turk from his apartment in the Tivoli. Herbs were in the mixture. How savory that made Ta-ta’s cooking. I especially remember, and value the memory of, a steak, somewhat brown and purpling, of course, with those pieces of herb on top like pine needles and burst pants fragments.

In the shadow of the doorway of the poverty-stricken, 19th century Irish potato famine shack of burnt dirt and weeds, a mattock had been leaned against the jam and it glowered in the rambunctious lighthouse of the copper kettle held hodge-podge lickety-split doodad of its bunkhouse being. In other words it was weird as hell and I burped afterward, burped out facts in the form of words which flew up, arcing, down little white bit rice-like tic at the foot of Hostess Cupcakes sweating in the heat I photographed in the nostalgizing armature of the hot dust of the luxurious leaded and sugary window pane, somewhat Edwardian. At that very mole man a renovation was taking place in the little armored noggin underfoot. The judge broke fruit working a calypso oven on raining forks. Hot as a spark plug crafted limb from limb in Afghanistan. The Cid turned all gassy and got sucked out the duct. Bummer.

Everyone went home logically and devolved into constituents of rock salt, farts, and ceiling fans. Except one lark weeping in a bush a badger caught and made into a hat for his wife. The catalogue kept up his rollerskating, borrowed from a Brooklyn firm that specialized in feces and waterpumps for idiot fat farmers in Delacroix paintings hung in bathrooms at referral conglomerates heaving boxes big as truck beds into the stuffy waters of the marshy acreage out back. Bisquick too, big blue boxes of the stuff. Suffer the stuffing to ladybugs with eyelashes. The shimmering bank of spark gun hammers. The Nylon Codex, tricycled from Katmandu by some bank executive, was in part a referendum and enabled him, or so the story goes, to gather from an index, handy as hell, the names, practical and otherwise, of stuff.

This whole thing was the color of saffron and yellow and rank as broken manzanita trinkets and rinky-dink as the call of mulberry bushes bruising the sex act with maniac, grey-purple aroma. Finger. Rocketship. Laxative. St. Thomas Aquinas. Aquafresh. Crack. Ibd Saludan, the 14th century Arabic traveler. Central Asian crapshoot. Pocket aptitude test failing the shingle mark of the proctor. O, Sardinia…!

Five

A Clear Powerful Gel with Deep Cleaning Action

A pickle jar. The pickle jar is sitting on the rubbered wire of the shelf in the refrigerator. Other jars—mayonnaise, applesauce, etc.—cluster about. It is dark and cold. A sudden, rubbery suck and—voilá—hard light floods the fragrant chamber. In a length of time no longer than the duration of two fingers snapping, the chamber becomes blazing hot and equatorially humid. The label falls off with no greater resistance than and as quickly from the glassy face of the pickle jar as a piece of paper falling from a desk. The other labels follow until, from below, the refrigerator looks like a tropical rainforest, all the leaves falling and the monkey-strudel bats wrinkled stink in visible waves and silvery batteries clacking like castanets fashioned from cardboard and shiny tin in the architecturally significant Chartres Cathedral. Cracker traps like brill whale brush membrane or fibrous bristles.Tattoos made of corn flakes flourish in the soap-bar-soft glowing butter of the trumpet’s gold cylinder (small scratches and nail-gouges, tobacco-dark of having been used and age, time rolling through the flared lip of the horn). The Caspian Sea heaved in the plum-coloured darkness beneath the bluish moon, heaved, smacked open a huge cartoon screen prickling and snapping with white electricity. Turks go wild, screeching, banging coat hangers on wheels of cheese, bursting out of yurt flaps on loud little motorbikes with the sound of over-throttled chainsaws. One migratory tribesman in particular, Yünguulükkyuküü Roberts-Clark, tight, embroidered skull-cap and trousers scintillating in the nightlife cracked seed-casings on the sidewalk with a transparent uncoloured glass base from a broken lamp. Whose fault is that? Self-recriminations colour the bottles on the shelf behind the bar below the leaded mirror by creating liquids in them, like a reddish orange or an aquamarine and many more like that goldy color tracked under the ramp-polled sky-parrots and diced raw potatoes crunching a stage-Hamlet on teriyaki clung spiral harpoon corks popping in the diamante nightlight. Oh, bright darkness smoking! Oh, diacritical marks pulling on the drunken phone cords and the bells ringing. Huge iron bells hang in belfries above hallucinogenic clerics with night-blindness having visions of angels who exist and yet do not, especially neither in the bell, hanging heavier than a melting tractor, nor at Burger King crowned in paper. The tiny decorative white rocks that sparkle in ashtrays outside of great black towers of glass that are falling all over like hail, but as big as trains—bigger: big as mountains. CRASH! CRASH CRASH! Tinkle…Those sparkly rocks pour out with sand into small heaps of winking chaff. Small but intricately constructed helicopters had been ferrying lynx-headed executives around the placemat when heat-cloistered rabbits lucked out of the blackened crust.

A ruckus broke out all over the three old guys from the West Indies who in frayed straw hats crouched in front of the store with root-poppers thumbing soiled playing cards. The ruckus was a chemical riot near the chewed cola nuts in their mouths. The firefly in the darkened kitchen at the cutting board wheeled around in surprise. Heh-heh, he laughed nervously, uh…I… thought this was Vasco de Gama International Fritos Target Practice. Heh-heh. No one was buying this space-age plaster casting of a gringo’s gargle-sauce. They were wearing delicate suits fashioned from fascience beads. I mean they were wearing all-glass suits. Guava, gel, whatever. Their hair burst.

Six

Gizmotron 5000

Wretched gadgets fumbled out of gunnysacks into the curry-yellow, fishtank-stained wind. Ratcheting back the chocolates into catalogues of gum, my aiming, brainy retro-lozenge exploded into an oxygenated hotpants spitting Hotwheel-fire into six or seven hairy alembics, who, arcing hard sugar acrostics, poodled up the drainpipe into actual.Mexican robots knew what the deal was, which is why they ate crime into teapots on lunch-buckling duotrons. Scream while I work this spank-post loose from its calcium doodad spot-gobbler. Easy, Nixon…That’s it. Microphonic hair-doos crafted from nickel cadmium bush-beater axehandle notations—fromage—3, treats this zinc oxide fluorocarbon to stink on an eight-way eggbeater, six wide days out from the sun. Squint and hose out the gravy boat.

Crotch-chocolates from Colonel Fucknugget and the spank of urine on the floorboards ended the program.

Seven

Friar of Ben Gay

or

How I Gobbled Out the Kreskin-Bucket

I barked at the flambé and my lungs filled up with science fiction as that shapely anus twinkled in the night sky, fluctuating with the tapioca of stringing latitude strongly into Crimea on a warm summer vegetable platter. Who’s calling? Alembic turnip crunching bits like egg shell or kitty litter into the fling-fling? Or maybe Filament Rotweiler dumpling about the rectilinear leaf magnet flypaper. Bell curdled the razor blade feeling rather escarpment in one or two magical nut crockets while empty bins hummed unrelenting oyster sausages for the mayor and his vice-admiral in charge of hunting down yummy hound dog savior paste in the wickiup every nodding off to sleep in the seventy mile an hour vandal strychnine. This did not occur so much as occult meringues flew out of seven ups on the quality time Revlon kindling wagon careening, OK, more like walloped me antipasto or before during and after the inaugural I okey-dokeyed my walleye into the hamper. The Friar of Ben Gay rollerbladed clean into the great out of dormitory laundry chute fork for my crazy, oh my god my eye ball all rolly around on the carpet-finger daddy humping the crocks for a living.Crawl with me now, Rutger, you and Filament, while scarfing down a beaker of Orangina to the rhythm of a sputtering shark meat jerky tossing its timing belt into the carport. The smelt of German shepherd urine soaked into the month-long carpet cleaner by the liniment tube, mostly squeezed and slightly rusty, one yellowish earwig carcass dancing the squealing ducat across crushed toaster limbo. Dance like peanuts into the eye of the cosmic sturgeon my lederhosen of glockenspiel. Freak out, for soon the sun sinks into its turkey-lerkey tofurkey murky husky hulking Brutus of the swollen ditty I am humming your pants off of through using. Clever, huh? Me with my crypto-Nantucket algebra of tarragon and vinegar in a rubber hat that slices off your fluctuating scrub bump and ricochets it off proper jocularity.

Let’s dissect the hairspray. Trebizond or Hermes Trismegistus, you pre-shrink the corn tubing to the dismay of lanky Flán Iliescu, cornerstone of the smoked turgid lipstick fakir Lemonade Al-Farouk sunk deeply into the snack paddle tricky the frisking nark. Hail to the monkey business which you can see from the outcropping of pure chilly grapes or get in close and you can see it real good amid the Frankenstein donut sprinkling of the Huguenot. On the terrace above the sparkling littoral the ingénue and the headless freak ate cigarettes and urinated into the effervescent cupola of the chart busters. Leeks with faces on them ran into the backs of their own knees catapulting themselves off of the rut mutton panelist whom is always seeking the ratatouille of our crepuscular heart popped out of the tray case. Perfect. Scatter the seed in a white architecture of speaking as the squeaking office chair circa the phlebotomist’s corpulent traces of backward pants fragments plastered behind the masking tape while I was smoking crack for you my Pope.

Eight

Nation of Boxcars

Lacy and hell-bent for bootstrap monkey-larva the lavender do-hickey ran riot onto the blue-bottle booby-trap of Pinky McGurk, Indian, population notably absent due to the wind-tunnel practicum correlating the crisp rat-trap bunkers into the hatful of notions the secretary sent to be remaindered into influences.Pincher-boy solipsistically rendering the cardboard crater-trays into pink and yellow. Peepee Ladypants ran the grinder to the delight of the hopping scratchers and french-fries in leather pants that came in there to stir up some Labrador receiver in the stew they constantly produced in their pants. Just like them critter-nurturers, the percolators exclaimed reaching for their crullers, sticky with filth, biting off a mouthful of chlorofluorocarbons and soda-foam, rolling all around in the mentholated seabreeze, conundrums hanky-pankying the yard-arm to leprechauns at the doughnut pit. Cardboard cut-outs upright in the dorm room get all the jolly tractor-freaks into a non-stop gag and sputter of adolescent door-knob hole-peekers breaking into show business from the top of the parking structure. Pinky paused, jerking his head out’n his ass. This might Martian me, scratching his foot on the shag rug and peeing into the rising night wind, a lark of sweet golden liquid into the dark troglodyte of the afternoon’s negative, flat and chemically flavoured.

Ratting out the skeletons in the ice-box, Norad Radon, Lt. Commander of the Fourth Wing of the Rectilinear Budgie, saluted his reflection in a hubcab and asked the gravel where his hat was. That was right before the teeth came. The rushing of wind and the giant mallet. Later, a sky full of coins. Pinky reappeared mysteriously with a bottle of gold wire and a spanking.

The 3-D Golf Course convinced Norad that he was the hostess and sat itself down in vinyl begging for placards. His smile lit up the funeral parlors and he ran into the streets with a sign advertising women in rewarding positions of meat processing and great huge bottles of grenadine. The 3-D Golf Course shrank him with a micro-ray and set back facts of representational race-horses behind the sauce of hours where the Micronauts knocked his portrait off the mantle and made lunchmeat of the taut Norwegian seas. There, boiling with smelt, lambent nature documentaries flickered on the walls like 9-0-9-0-9-0 into the mountains above the Rio Grande river south of Taos, New Mexico in the year of our Lord eighteen-hundred-and-fifty-four.

After that Pinky rammed a wig up his ass, closed up shop, boarded prime numbers and made jerky out of the stars. Norad and the 3-D Golf Course held hands into the Jonas Salk twilight of cucumbers and weeping. The sock-puppet of the night rearranged the rigid kernels in the dank box where the hands were and 40 birthdays full of soiled onions fed pages of the phone book into the back of a fan.

Nine

Manhunt in the Heartland (Muñoz Was a Righteous Bust)

I hear the inner intern’s bobbin knob popping, an interurban daily Davey Crockett slop bucket parapet stopping clocks on the aboveground spot to talk shop. Check the squeaking jobbers on the interstate, frying up some Steakums ™ and frolicking: Tom Thumb’s gunshot Farsi gargling in the airport bathysphere.I near cobbler gingerly, dried and dusted with old age, sugary and as powdery dry as a segment of fossilized rye, as a twist of tobacco in a pulverized lye tomb out back by the back bedroom, damp in the shadow of the hutches, where the gobbling came out, clucking under cover of mildewed daisies and feathers.

Milkweed Danish crushed slowly downstairs, slamming doors on the tiny uranium underground. Titanium nuggets in jockstraps pushed flames around, through the hatchback outback and into the steakhouses that violated onion salt beneath the pastry eaves, a kind of redshifting through sheets of framboise and primrose, parsnips and pruning shears by the plums and grapes drying toward prune-raisins in the severely hosed twilight where the towels cracked and split open like marble with ice in the stones, next door to a storm of eyes.

Pleasing plastic sheeting was wrapped around gold-leafed wormwood angels on a pole and secured with bungee cords to protect them from the crowds that sussurated sub rosa in the Ding Dong ™ cone-winds. Descend in the diving bell of Anubis, who’s crumbling ambergris in his short pants, knee deep in grease-stained yellow wrappers.

“Hash-fisting fratboys caught,” in the fluttering razor junkhole, clogged it to the yank-and-thrust of moist hot gold lame, the loin of closet frankfurtering. Jennifer Beals is hogging down chicken jackets in the truck.

“Help me pack these redingotes into my,” cream cheese Celtic converts (and these) culverts: into my small valise. I can store it in the galvanized, annealed shining rack above the raining train window. The widow is taking a trip by chimp wagon to Deep Hula.

Why does David Strathairn keep reaching up your skirt and pulling out iguanas and shouting and dropping them in a tin pail? Fiona Apple is crawling up my ass with a knife in her teeth. Santa Claus has befouled Jennifer Lopez’s linens. He squats there in the dark apotheosis like a crimp in a hose and somewhere a toad is barking. I think I saw Wilford Brimley in the dead light of the nighttime azaleas holding asparagus.

Sparkles shot off a can of sealed cans and tiny dogs barked in my fingerprints. Sprinkle-cans make dust puffs on the houseplant ledge. Who do you have to die to get a tablecloth, face. Innisfree or Lucknow. Small batch that I am burning in my brewing stamps and the Manichean implications of the stanchions multiply. Take a mussel hiatus from your muscular anus and scallions are vegetable trimmings. His “hand broken into” several pieces, which house brass columns rising like a column of smoke, spinning around – high-end retail metal sounds, steel spoons on the coiled braid brand of metal strings on the calliope Jones brisker (wooden) and brisket brad brands hang down the woolen coat.

Ten

I Am the Antonioni of Films

In the cream-colored apartment building at Olive and Denny, the anxious but xenophobic stagehand, skewered the actress from Tblisi on the chopping block as she chopped up cabbage and doorstops. It was as awkward fan and as anxious as anything he did in the city. He left it shortly thereafter, complaining about the flan, which always came in sideways off the sound, shot, or so he always claimed, by post-prandial clams armed with slingshots. That’s got your name on it.

In Panmunjon, ring-tailed lemurs use a 19th century screw-plate clothing press to squeeze the juice out of slacks. The juice, which is as purple as new wine or blackberry juice, but as yellow as Mountain Dew, runs down a Long Tom into a galvanized trough, along the trough and into a multi-teated glass gas bottler. The bottles are old and the glass has flowed, making the bottoms heavy and warping the light that passes through them, giving them the slightest tint of pink milk or blueberries to the juice which is a gas, the gas that they contain and which is contaminated by them and which they contaminate Tammy and Li’l Tammy Rapeseed who kept a shoebox full of five thousand dolls the size of kernels of corn kernels.

The metallic stench of slot-machine gauntlets whiten as they bleach in an old paint pan in a desert the ditch of which is windblown nudity manuals? A single glove, spray-painted silver and rubbed with iron filings, with the furtive fiddlings and fondlings of quarters suspended in a moment of terror before the dark neon tacos, as the rail bum Jan Drum stops before the syncopated updraft of the bus’s air brakes, breaking cornstalks of terror into the bikini sidecar of winkling test tube diseases in the lounges, percolates upward in the throat of Ham Toasticlier.

Drum found, acid-etched on the back of a vandalized school crossing sign, and written in the language of pants, formed of hundreds of abandoned slacks, slick with the filth of passers-by, a list of secret truths, which he memorized and formed the basis of a school of thought that influenced a generation, from garbage truck drivers to secretaries of the treasury to archaeologists who specialized in paleo-agricultural studies in the Near East.

  • Ubuntu is a block of wood tied to a bamboo pole which savages whirled about their heads to play “I Believe in Miracles,” a bullroarer of tubules that called down rain.
  • Chrome force-extrudes a fudge-like substance tainted with cherry around which light bends to serve as wheel-locks on Athabascan chariots of the gods.
  • Mentos are node computers running Salvator Mundi protocols of profound derivations in the hammersmiths of cockles.
  • Raceface’s API is the same as a UPS or APB out on scrambles, that toasts and scrabbles at several harmonious toad cushions.
  • Force-ported by Scrum Wedgington, the scarce chocolate OS of epiphanies, a piano doctor where it intersects with argumentative reality in a cloud compartment bubbling up the ruby channel, which is a kind of scanner or something.

Then he saw a boob and galloped into a fruit stand and never felt the clammy hands of robot trance dancers again.

Eleven

My Pants Are in the Chancellery

Or

An Oriental Mystery

My pants are in the chancellery. The chives are in the pantry and the knives in the highboy. The oxalic’s in the carboy, bubbling broadly like a broiled steer, while the Lesbian decants in the demijohn and the Merovingian decamps from the Savoy.

The roistering loblolly lobsters forth remnants. There are always three remnants involved when there are revenants involved: The rudiments of impedimenta, the Red Monk of Crinsel’s Toff and dementia resulting from the marriage of impossible dimensions.

Then the lobscouse came down and the chickens came home to roost, the cows came home and the camas root boiled at the foot of a friend’s frown. Olga Korbut and Gina Lollobrigida shot the log flume to the tinkle-bells of girlish squeals. They hit the showers. From to Karkemish to Kentish Town, the tingling came to stay, rubbed into the creases.

I’m writing another novel in the Captain Pantsuit series. I write in the evenings on the veranda of Shepheard’s Hotel in the Ezbekia, nursing a goat-bladder of ice-cold karkadee.

“Contrapuntal polyglots clicked and popped as they wormed their way under the carpet pads piled up in the corner of the derelict hotel on dreaming of roasted red peppers and the dust-flavored, dun-colored evenings in Teseney.

“’They call me The Ointment,’ he said told the Captain. ‘Habeeble is making tuxedo bombs out of oxen and lamp-black in the back of his carpet shop on Bab ‘Al Prognosis in the Precast Concrete Parking Chocks District.’”

On the cornice, I see the British spy they call Screaming Mimi—he who specializes in the honeypot trap—giggling and making suggestive motions with a shadouf. The Minister of Intelligence slows his Rolls-Royce Silver Ghost Phaeton to waggle his titanic eyebrows at the setting sun.

“Why is your rectum so tacky?” he asked the man on the bus. “Like an inexpertly cleaned coffee table in a house shared by five young men of college age? In my day, every morning at six a.m. or thereabouts, they delivered Shostakovich in shapeless leather bags they dumped on the stoop.”

My pants have assumed a sinister aspect. In the corner, partially hidden by a potted palm, a Lebanese chanteuse chants a soft chanson, while his chanticleer, canted, clings to the cantle of his saddle, watching the cattle clop by on their way to the Windsor’s Barrel Bar for pink gins.

My lavish pants are in the lavatory. My leather pants are in the larder. My paper pants are in the pantry. My pants are made of pastry. Patty Cakes breaks down breakdance pants for the nutria.

A man from France plants bugs under the dust jackets of the one hundred and forty-five volumes of the Proceedings of the Royal Society for the Prevention and Promotion of Transient Skullduggery in the library of the Mena at the behest of Scratch Bondi.

(“Todo para la patria.”)

***

(Some of these perfectly reasonable morpheme tales were initially published in “Exquisite Corpse“)

My Pants Are in the Chancellery

Or

An Oriental Mystery

My pants are in the chancellery. The chives are in the pantry and the knives in the highboy. The oxalic’s in the carboy, bubbling broadly like a broiled steer, while the Lesbian decants in the demijohn and the Merovingian decamps from the Savoy.

The roistering loblolly lobsters forth remnants. There are always three remnants involved when there are revenants involved: The rudiments of impedimenta, the Red Monk of Crinsel’s Toff and dementia resulting from the marriage of impossible dimensions.

Then the lobscouse came down and the chickens came home to roost, the cows came home and the camas root boiled at the foot of a friend’s frown. Olga Korbut and Gina Lollobrigida shot the log flume to the tinkle-bells of girlish squeals. They hit the showers. From to Karkemish to Kentish Town, the tingling came to stay, rubbed into the creases.

I’m writing another novel in the Captain Pantsuit series. I write in the evenings on the veranda of Shepheard’s Hotel in the Ezbekia, nursing a goat-bladder of ice-cold karkadee.

“Contrapuntal polyglots clicked and popped as they wormed their way under the carpet pads piled up in the corner of the derelict hotel on dreaming of roasted red peppers and the dust-flavored, dun-colored evenings in Teseney.

“’They call me The Ointment,’ he said told the Captain. ‘Habeeble is making tuxedo bombs out of oxen and lamp-black in the back of his carpet shop on Bab ‘Al Prognosis in the Precast Concrete Parking Chocks District.’”

On the cornice, I see the British spy they call Screaming Mimi—he who specializes in the honeypot trap—giggling and making suggestive motions with a shadouf. The Minister of Intelligence slows his Rolls-Royce Silver Ghost Phaeton to waggle his titanic eyebrows at the setting sun.

“Why is your rectum so tacky?” he asked the man on the bus. “Like an inexpertly cleaned coffee table in a house shared by five young men of college age? In my day, every morning at six a.m. or thereabouts, they delivered Shostakovich in shapeless leather bags they dumped on the stoop.”

My pants have assumed a sinister aspect. In the corner, partially hidden by a potted palm, a Lebanese chanteuse chants a soft chanson, while his chanticleer, canted, clings to the cantle of his saddle, watching the cattle clop by on their way to the Windsor’s Barrel Bar for pink gins.

My pants are in the lavatory. My leather pants are in the larder. My paper pants are in the pantry. My pants are made of pastry. Two pants plants bugs in the suite at the Mena Hotel and the behest of Scratch Bondi. Patty Cakes breaks down breakdance pants for the nutria.

(“Todo para la patria”.)

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