The man came around like a hurricane, blabbing murder. With stabbing droplets his voice pounced until I had to stop looking at his face to keep living. His friends called him the Pregnant Pause on account of the incessant detritus that fell from his mouth. He clearly needed a secretary, or at the very least, a bucket and mop to clear a path toward dialogue. The Pregnant Pause had little interest in communication.
Mrs Flatface, Mrs Dowdy, mashed potatoes sassy. Camoo-moo, moo-cow Camoo. I was thinking, there must be a lot of private pressure accumulating in the savagery of your last name.
For being Woman you were treated
to nothing
but a cross no living thing deserves
held humiliated burnt
our gift repulsed
In the city
there is a long slope with fourteen different wires that need to be untangled and dealt with
so tonight you won’t feel my skin brushing against your own in the rooted darkness because I’ll be silencing the screams of besieged atoms
far from perfect.
Total love and gorgeously out of step were you; held together by a string of electric current and the joy of being nowhere all at once. I heard about your Knoxville Death, how you took it right on the neighbors’ front lawn because you couldn’t be fucked dancing anymore. The music you made was so amazing I should have killed you myself.
I hold a mirror to the pupil and see myself
squint-eyed and deliberate
in gun battles the world over.
Policing policies particularly perplexing, police provide personal problems: pneumonia; plus peculiar propagation pertaining past particulars.
In Cherbourg, Roland Barthes built a bridge using only reconstituted language as material. He had a remote control to the future and a backpack full of codes to protect him from penetration by narrative structure. It is a little known fact that Barthes used jump cuts to assail the fourth wall and lay siege upon the fourth estate. Deeply shocked, culture was never the same.
Freckled in electric glow, my sisters’ stupid bald boyfriend lumbers against the hissing backwaters of twilight. He is a slob – a godless blinker into the buttonholes of human depravity.
“Splendid and terrible, I promise you a struggle,” Lady Council, thrusting a lavish ulcer toward Gilbert, shouted. He shuddered. A smothering blunder of vivid peace began to rise within him.
Longshoreman, registered tax agent, former ambassador to the Dutch East Indies; the wrestler Bauxite was born of rational scientific principals. In him, over time, a horrible jumble of perspectives commenced toward a significant truth: the elderly were an occult gospel of claws.
With steam-driven impatience Mr. Everything asserts himself as the queen of everyone. The ocean cooperates fully with his demands. Entire continents, motionless for centuries, awake with new ambition to gain audience with this new deity. Mr. Everything, as can be expected, buggers them blindfolded. They float from his office on the quarter hour in a queer daze, bleeding intellect.
Bereft of currants for her scones, Mrs. Mirabeau decides to replace them with consonants. She has neither time nor interest in jerking her firecracker hips toward the convenience store for currants; today consonants will have to suffice. The grandchildren will be none the wiser masticating on a mouthful of pronunciation. Who knows, thought Mrs. Mirabeau, perhaps with an accidentally swallowed vowel or two, whole sentences will settle in the murky depths of the children’s bellies.
Patricia ran an efficient family, ignorant of tellings-off and dirty backsides. It took a further three years and the hiring of a private investigator to realise she had become enslaved by the well-heeled universal consciousness of a tapestry worn thin by mental retardation.
There is much controversy about keeping well and mothers constantly being amended as new products. Mothers like to think they are useful; fortunately aches and phony ailments become them. The right approach is to keep mothers at bay. Do not fall into the well-meaning exercise of offering help.
