August 2009
14 posts
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Studying the tropes and pre-historic numerology of his tetralogical stutter, we build instantaneous support beams for our paisley-guilded, onion dome fortress. Another night with heads bowed over hammered Anatolian platters, oiled by the pint with a cracked purple bullet handshake. Tubercular breakfast sneering at the supreme falseness of gestures and corner store misanthropic ventilations. She finally dug up her skull.
Apparently it was I who started the joke, from its canonical variations to the never-ending vocalizations of self-depricating tremolo. The diligence of our scribe stains the stationary of a clean, East-Asian bungalow. After phoning the heart, the seizure point, a ‘five minute mustache’ will dutifully return to the podium of paid confusions.
Fielding Apple Island in 1988
Commuted (downstairs) to modified glory layers. Something about a dog-eared appendix in her memory. Which story was that? There was a box from another Czech city, in the belly of a bean, some erratic miles above the Azores.
Anxiety freezes his nostrils and shakes the salt from his escaping veins.
Promotional materials under stale vessels and stories of the docks, years before the captain’s arrival.
“Last I heard, he pulled anchor for one of them central american retirement ports”
“Babysitting the sustainabily parrot” he said. “The unique variey that eats small creatures spawned from its own fecal canopy”.
“Held in infinite repeat mode I suppose, the mimicry of life eternal”, they prayed.
Beauty and ‘the sacred’ under pre-historic pillows. Shopping for sentient talismans on the internet again and again. The choice between fragility and a pock-marked blur. German scholasticism or plastinated animal backs?
“It’s just a vision man”, he reminds himself.
collecting rejections
- proposed conference paper on pansychism (denied)
- submitted travel essay titled “Lac Thanh Bottle Opener” (denied)
- ALL local bars & booking agents we contacted about a specific tour date (ha!)
- labels wanting to release next comoros record (nothing yet)
That was last week.
Who will knock us over this week?
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* PIDO CASTIGO *
Although they had escaped hemispheric cooking season, it may still have been warm as they walked directly upward, off of the salted ground, to admire the man’s portals and somehow find an excruciating lust for a mid-century apertif (higher than Crusoe).
“I demand punishment”, he quoted Neruda? For not vomiting conspiratory claims onto their concerns of vehicle selection. For occular preference and for shoving superfluous, ungodly staircases where they need not be listening.
Plays & Players Coctail Curtain
From Whitehorse to Tikal the dancers can hear you knocking lager bottles when Hank’s Lounge magically appears before you, stacked ladders above robot technicians who dare to embody Orson Welles.
We all produce what we consume and bitch and moan with varying accents over the din of hushed drones which fall off from frustrated, art-knobs dreadfully phobic of any adequate volumes. Slimm buys a round. Olson buys a round. Sinking against black-boxed vibrations with frames swinging on the pin-striped skull after stealing scraps of contemporary mind (from the corner of the park) and getting unfathomable refills to accompany my brown-lamp, wicked breakfast plate.
Listen
Straight across the line. Four weapons from four decades, reading four authors from Zarkov’s oval window.
“The red pedal!!!”
Synthetic garbage drip pantomime, top-wrapped and shared with a kiss. We are mere apparition these hazy afternoons. Shouting into abandoned mines as if our own doppelgangers were about to respond with unrivaled psalms of levitation in proto-linguistic verse.
Jumbled constructions of letters creating names we shant remember, and don’t care to humanize, for they must be placed in inflated statifications of our subjective, semi-arid montage of Moorish permutations.
Is there any chance I might age like Gaddis?
