Ibbly: beveled morphology and a snack tuna on cables.
Smack me so it leaves a mark. My interior is pox-ridden
and smooth of squeeze it reheats the dusty chops.
One warm breast spills out of a turtle neck.
Click shut the refrigerator door, cleaving the soy patty,
falling limp as tissue into the freshwater mainstream squirming
from the crinkled tube.
Watch on the freeway the tires unravel into sparks and ha ha death:
30 ballpeen shots to the noggin.
Archive for the ‘Uncategorized’ Category
Ibbly: beveled morphology and a snack tuna on cables.
Scraping by by me something along the tracks,
a gelatinous grouping in the shape of a TV personality,
ochre eye shadow cascading grim red tie
punt like pool-shark lampshade cookie-poodles
paddles soap pining gimpy nuts soccer for free
siccing the dog on the sick limpy nut vendor
laying soaky bun blisters over the side
Fall like a leaf from the sea.
Eve of St. Agnes—they swam the platter like a log
Ding-dong, the poodle baron. A day-care center Thursday
and I am standing on the back porch facing sideways
Macreasa inside, dollop in the bean pot
Crispy chitlins—they sell bananas like a freeway
And spin a sweatshirt from plum juice and ocean
Saddled like a midget’s buttocks this life of ours
is really important and conforms to my warm insect
Bring me forty streetsigns, fire me a gross
of beetle sympathy and tired pancakes, to
the rictus of my emotional heartstring ruptures
and floods Macreasa’s dress with our first child
Lastly sinful like a magpie on vacation,
How many rabbits can hide in a desk-clerk’s hair?
holding two lizards like drumsticks or music
clogs and clots the plain ham of our life together
And like Jesus at the cycle-barn, and Pharaoh eating stone
I bought a shirt with a timber locket stolen from a telephone pole
Ruptured rubber gadgets sprinkled on my neck and
pulled-out backbone lay down on plastic
hairpiece dreamed especially for Mother Earth
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but strong enough to grip
Most of PIAB suction cups can be used
together with accessories such.
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download the file. Reader, SUCTION CUP WITH CLIP:
Many uses on any smooth
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If there’s one sure way to attract attention to your novel, it’s to publish it on a blog like Morpheme Tales. After all, practically 80 people a day, most looking for “naked bums” visit this site. Shortly after publishing sample chapters, I imagine Tor or DAW or Harper Collins will be knocking down my door. The heart-felt praise from all of you, my devoted devotees, won’t hurt either. Am I right, people? Am I right? People? *sigh*
When the slow decay of the universe starts suddenly speeding up and the eventual end of creation is looking more like, oh, say Sunday, mysterious messengers decide to reveal the location of a long-lost sacred text to a space-faring vampire.
In my satirical novel “Ainadamar,” Prince Ivan Stratsimir of Krăn’s family motto — one which has also functioned perfectly well as the motto of the Madrugada, the spaceship he commands — translates roughly as “It’s All About the Benjamins.” So a divine charge to find and employ the Enchiridion is met with some ambivalence, especially since it may mean his death. Again. With the help of a crew of fellow temporal refugees — the chain mail-clad Red Mona, a mountebank, a cowboy named Slim, a feline engineer, a cephalopodan ship’s surgeon and Stanislaus, the Madrugada’s shape-shifting chef — Stratsimir must make his way across half a universe and a handful of centuries to find and use this cross between a scripture, a spell-book and a computer operating system and fix the form of the created worlds. Along the way, they have to fight, avoid, trick and bribe everyone from religious extremists who believe sin can only be destroyed by reversing the Big Bang, a galactic empire that makes those chumps in Star Wars look like a Canadian provincial transportation subcommittee, super funky space banditos and an army of zombies.
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I. Lobster ad lobster
Aqua Thinktank and I are repurposing delphinium in a stranger’s bed.
Taking my lobster, O. Ron Dismount, for a walk in the Palais Royal. Then, grabbing one with cheese. *wink*
Bats are like mice that freak out over mounds. This according to a study published today in Nature by my associate, Ergo Pippette.
Attempting to hire a chauffeur with at least basic familiarity with Baluchistani car rental agencies. Impossible!
Aqua Thinktank just told me technology has boners for eyes. He showed me a high-impact plastic case which containing two regular human eyes.
Containers contain contents. Incontinence tints pants. Flippancy flips pantsuits into soups of various sorts.
Developing a newspaper one-half of one inch wide and 32 feet long.
My blanket is seven feet wide and eight inches long.
My bicycle has one giant wheel and one tiny wheel.
My mammoth car has a tiny chain-link steering wheel.
My mortadella spoke. Comforting gibberish.
Lobster fighting with NFL players. Cruel? Not if you win all the time like O. Ron Dismount.
Do my fingers smell weird?
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Since starting this blog in November of 2004, I have been inundated with letters pleading, nay, demanding, that I post the full series of Winnie the Beet cartoons from the 90’s best magazine, nicknamed “the Spy-killer,” Emergency Horse.
I resisted. And with good reason. These cartoons are so funny, they will probably kill you. Kill you, I say. My fellow EH editor Scott “Scott Taylor” Taylor scanned them and sent them to me and now, finally, I both can, and am willing to, post them for your comedic delectation. In a note to me, Scott noted, “They are unfunny in an unfunny way alas.” In this too he is correct.
July 4th not long past, Wiferino and I watched the miniseries “John Adams” (from HBO) on dvd. It was excellent and inspired me to read David McCullough‘s “1776.” (Davey the M wrote the biography of Adams on which the miniseries was based.)
In 1776, McCullough describes in great detail the Battle of Brooklyn and the Battle of Fort Washington against the British, the latter of which was an ill-considered rear-guard action to hold the British after Washington and the bulk of his troops escaped across the Hudson. The book led me to dug out the genealogy of my family, as my great-great-great-great-great grandfather, Francis, took part in the defense of New York.
Robert [Hopkins] was a Continental soldier who enlisted in the Third Pennsylvania Regiment, Capt. Thomas S. Boyle’s Company, in February 1776. Part of his service was in the Second Connecticut Regiment. He was pensioned in 1818. During the defense of New York in 1776, Robert was taken prisoner at Fort Washington, being released in March 1777. In 1818 Francis Hopkins deposed that he enlisted in Boyle’s Company at the same time with Robert Hopkins for the term of one year. He was also taken prisoner with him at Fort Washington…
These five Hopkins men [Robert, Francis, William, Henry & Gardner], all Revolutionary War veterans (four in the same company), came to Kentucky about the same time. Three of the five – Robert, Henry, and Gardner, are proven brothers. William and Francis are obviously from the same family. It is suspected they are also brothers.
Most of the Americans taken prisoner at New York were either packed into unheated barns or confined aboard derelict ships used as prisons, where a huge percentage died of disease.
As someone who’s worked in and with social media for some time now, I have amassed accounts in dozens of services. I rarely use these services but they’re out there and eventually, recently, they started to exert a kind of mental gravity on me. I felt like I was “neglecting” them and that made me irritated. So, last night I set about mercilessly deleting accounts.
This decision was brought to a head by a handful of things. The first was a post, I think by MarshallK (it goes without saying that I can’t find it now) on the occasional purging of feeds (the next thing on my list to do). The second was a story on sabbaths, technical and otherwise, by MarkG, and the third was the relentless malfunctioning of Twitter, which came at the same time as my starting a new job, with its panoply of broken and misfiring laptops and cellular phones.
Whether this is the first step down a path to a permanent blackout or, perhaps more likely, a temporary restart of my relationship with online identity, only time will tell.