Tuesday, October 28, 2014

text || DC DeMarse

Excerpt from MIRACLEPODGE, [new draft]

THIS IS BIG [not the fucking bird, nor non-filial and entirely metaphorical gangsta papa, dead, along with the probably mostly recognizable idioms that sustained and mutating will sustain as different ones the fleeting legends of what I like to call the club of delusive forevers—nor too not big like that famous L: he been, or, is, was won by time, or it's been some shit since he's long been beneath along with gangsta papa [I am a cracker-ass-candyass soldier btw, of the once-glorious Upper West Side, now, in this land of new women and men, a naturally occurring and according to studies quite efficient and sustainable, but completely fucking LARGE aquarium—by the way—for your consideration too I will tell of that submerged, highly Jewish—these days, now known as Norlap—area of old. Most likely if you reared one here for example you were prone to enable, kiss a loneliness to grotesque life, hurt peripherally but badly—since, well, I'm emotionally weak I know [and in the future, fyi—explaining myself as is common for newcomers from the past, before a stupendous family of angels—or at the least judges who bothered to work out enough to look good in a speedo—so, yeah. That uh 'I'm' works, altho introducing the possibility uh that I am actually speaking to a band of speedo aficionados with extensive knowledge of the Law.] For those still back in a stagnating present of whatever I said before, who haven't jumped ahead: everyone's hotter, and like saying 'French Fries' capital punishment has become a new American Pastime. It blossomed, wholesomely, like a flower of death, apparently. People can gaily skip to their own goddamn loo, if you ask me—you’ll see, that statement’ll make sense, it was on my mind about a scene to be described—just, if you do, don't get excrement into places where it might have the chance to trickle into a ubiquitous disarray of the mind's house, especially, that is, if it’s not just you living in the house alone but you rather who live in—house—of the almighty 'rents: at least my parents don't make me pay rent, or pare my nails—o, well—as what I will say might seem obvious when I explain the state of my nails later, I do that already, make it a good clean job, always: I was walking in Futureland, leaving to walk in silly, rainy street twilight, after hearing those dour speedo-guardians [I couldn’t imagine them naked, they were too tall, inhumanly tall—like probably on stilts tall—I left them with an imagined loincloth instead, to rest the spoon awhile in my inscrutable anxiety-stew] after hearing those dour speedo-guardians, clothed in dark down, tell me about capital punishment: I was like some brand-spanking cliché just walking down the street in the rain—to be superfluous—and admittedly somewhat dejected-feeling and like a castaway or some pathetic shit like that—in the rain—and there I was, then, was near one of the prisons, which, really, was still some distance away, but I could tell this gutter I was taking a gander at was connected to it, perhaps spiritually, but definitely sewerpipe-wise: it was bordered by foul-smelling, suspicious mud that two androgynous toddlers—or—maybe, sly dwarfs, impersonating toddlers to get all those delicious—kindly stares—for nothing but gratis—nothing bean—a racket I'm sure it was—conning innocent smiles! Out there they were these dwarf-children or something but probably children ‘cos what grown people would unless way out of their reason’s last blasted niche play like that in such a dirtily putrid snapshot: haha: conning smiles, what nonsense, and if they were kids it all anyway would be few who would and all for nothing bean those hapless few putting forth a least modicum of a gene or strand of energy in a positive glance so innocuous as to as easily transform said smiles—as expected, each tooth and down to the least of the lip—together into a stack of puffy pink pillows—bang, like that—and with the same devastating celerity as one who might spontaneously combust—gene, strand, me an idiot—etc etc I don't know the proper term for whatnow to describe this innocuous to the highest thing’s transformation, itself rather unscientific anyway and probably not a matter of genes if examined—that is, the magical turning of teeth, gum, smile—to pink puffy adorable uh uh metaphors! That’s the transformation, that is, it is figuration, nothing to do with genes, no, nothing to do, no literal breath taken upon understanding that but literally as I write this a breath taken [I spoke the now then]: ahhh, I love you you grating pink pillows: would one even bother to lead themselves down a highly—that is, high as the highest thing—psychologically rattling path in pursuing studying calculating all the recorded or—disgusting!—unrecorded instances of this among other things [high, or no]  human-on-human ersatz-approval from strangers—and such a motive lying in children, if even!—ahhh these nice dwarfs wearing their PADDINGTON BEAR raincoats in the raininess, as they are so wont. The two pint-sized chappies: were splashing and playing in that bloody gutter when suddenly—and what isn't sudden in this world [not a grand statement—was speaking of Futureland—travel is extinct, besides short distances where it would seem superfluous, everyone pushes buttons and then they’re there. Considering I and these figurations were the only ones present on this street, I had no choice but to concur with myself, they were as wayward as I, as homeless, poor souls]—when suddenly, some of the mud and dirt began together a silent campaign against the tiny murthering stomps, relxing their elements and by so doing horrifyingly revealing their masquerade—and I all silent and alone in the rain that instant: too late, said too whisperingly: it's a masquerade! I wasn’t able to spike the first phonetic of a warning to them—too awed, something like that, how odd—and then—the material of what should have been ruff ground earth and sluicing streetslush and formless water got all sticky and tacky: I watched the tackiness: the toddlers, well, I, I couldn't see their faces nor mother for miles and miles of [the] delusive forever [club]—and so then thought, heeding vileness and retreating to a laden gratuity, soaked in defeat, I thought, Good on these independent fuckers either way—had more bravery than I—enough bravery, so much—or, just a persisting ignorance?, the type immanent in all born sloped-headed lackeys. It was this ingenuity I observed, brought these alleged brothers to play, till—well—the milk soured, so to speak: I am plagued with embellishing rotund—richly tho—redundancy, usually, that is, syntactically, but not metaphorically, where it would be powerful, and so then think of the pink pillows again and swerve to the right corner of my darling left hemisphere and write something like uh but maybe only like you know audibly say: uh. METAPHOR-SWERVE THAT TAPS INTO GROSS-ASS MEMORY [tho, I should get back to deceased rappers and waxing on the BIG that began this soon]: so, the nice pie, to be the straightshootking—lord of specificity of detail—a fancy pumpkin, with garnishes of whipped cream and powdered sugar, yum!, grew these large, alive spores made up of these fuzzy green spikes once—overnight, and this happened in the fridge of all things—that is, metaphorically swervingly—and the mud most definitely tho with slowness resembled increasingly a goo that what got me spacing out a thought’s mileage into the realms of that memory: a vile, clotted muck of raw blood and human gack from the latest penal slaughter: and soon, the whole thing was unearthly, so unearthly, enough unearthly, that—and I am ashamed of this [verbally gratuitous, on the one hand, and, literally, stuck in the essence of stuttering, staggering aporia, a perverse haunt] state of mine, seeming dispossessed, tho I was, really, what with being in the Futureland with naught family nor friend: no doubt people who might’ve seen me standing there by this gutter watching damn kids play in thick, brown blood would absently or worried enough to enlarge the brow downward indulge tho mistaken a hunch about me [if that is they had seen, which I still am grappling with speculations about]: a hunch of—preversion—and/or obvious lonerism that if so probable, implied an especially obtuse in this day-future and age-future—obtuseness. Everyone’s hotter, that’s for damn sure; people are also better about keeping their fetishizing under wraps—that is, wrapping it up in a box with pornographic waxpaper, titties strapped and folded across the sides—instead, yes, saving it all up, a grand supply of sacred jism for their these days most likely part-cyborg lover on Christmas Redux, as they these weird peeps call it. Still learning the argot. Used that word already. Ugh. DAmn, I give up. That I became completely deaf to any response in this rainy instance then is sure, stock-still, pelted by droplets in hose-like succession, fascinated by this Show Of The Dwarf—toys—ah, my head is, was, who knows, bringing things out of the treasure chest now, so sorry. Being metaphorical again. So, so wry. Offerings, offerings to I for me to write about—and o them, the toys. Built up for mads, like mads mads decades, years etc etc—such a treasure-chest, so-called—lived patiently, collecting snackfood for what vacant cephalopods [live, slinkingly roaming rhoombas they are] that paid it a visit. Like an aquatic homebody, it was, or something: the chest didn’t like to go out that often, but grew popular amongst the algae nonetheless: the chest of now as I lift it from depths dripping yet also once surrounded heavingly by vague, lore-filled [daveyjones, walk plank, yarr, etc] oceans for eons or something, I felt, had been completely submerged for far too long: the ocean, by the looks of how degraded and seaweed-wed it looks in the light of the now, made quick work of it, huh, eking quickly in, filling thru its cracked perimeter long ago as the bubbles, I'd imagine, exploded upwards and then disappeared with the last airpocket: and all for I to then feel the weight of, now, I, as I lift this nice, fractured metaphor for toying with reality or reaping rewards—with my bare hands—shoulders flexing to hold up this, well, this metaphorical something or other—above my head [watery and heavy, diluted, o course, since no wood is ever even in the future of futures, solely hole-less]: it had forever squatted the non-sentient mastiff of a thing on the sandy bottom of the murkiest longitude of BROADWAY AVE and didn't do chores, no shit, since, uh, obvious, it's an—inanimate object. METAPHORICAL SWERVE. But, yeah, anyway: to have seen . . . to have seen, I declare, both these [and it’s questionable] children scream, scream for their mommy, who was on vacation again [being omniscient, as this is my own lackey-twit homemade narrative, I know this, and know that as an Avid Miniature Umbrella Collector [the said mothr], sacrifices must be made] well, such a seen scene at the least would predictably be heartrending. ANYWAY. To, have seen . . . hmm . . . my guess is this about something else, tho; that is, the capital punishment craze, it happened because over time everybody got too stupid and jaded to pay attention to baseball, seen arduously the more and generation by generation as as saccharine a sport as candyapples—in regards to the candy pyramid, hierarchy—eaten at a fair; or as edgily cruel as videotaping a young girl bobbing for regular ones and what who got her mouth torn up by as if by razor-like things—you guessed it—her dentures (?)]. MAMMY! Generally speaking of myself then—to put all this in an at least measly sort of perspective the outlier to these overly incubated Upper West Side sensibilities I have described to you and I for so long kept agelessly blankly living then freed after millennia to gulp a breath again from that diaphanous ice of The Cryogenic Freezer which uh is an image anyway metaphorical or involved somehow or whatwise in the arc of this half-narrative, ended up being—and wait, I will get to it—this, that is, a memory, ahem; that is, a memory of freedom, sort of, was the least relative outlier to my present future-circumstance I could upon release give my sacred notions of familiarity to, and is fitting and is what keeps me [from] going still: and here's it. As when: I the sparrowass candyfart hot-to-trot man at first I thought I was was at last freed to leave the nest, to the next, and now, thought I—then—not only on the road uh thought I—but on the way to having in my very own, ahem, in my very soft hands, in my heavily washed hands pruned of cuticle and other mess, nonworkers hands [tho my eyes are unbearably dark and tried by the pangs of reality, on reg] a long-treasured, fake independence. And I can hear the applauds now as I land lik’ a bright pissant off the bright yellow slide without scraping my knees or even better scraping my knees bad, really bad, and not crying about it: hah: anyway: choosing to do drugs with your girlfriend in her UCONN apartment complex, amounting to a mounting of cowardice and a humping of it by JUSTICE [or something else that's important enough to put in capes, cripes, CAPS] was escapades nonetheless and amazing into the fresh tundra of life and for an over expensive psychiatrist to whittle down to reductive death, all blasé handing me— again, again, again—the pill papers I am doomed to never be able to extort the contents of for profit or use for recreation: drugs drugs drugs, hugs!: and probably Big L, finally back to mentioning, well, he know by now [just an assumption] all heaven's staircases to the less frequent, lowly chambers, where heaven's only Meth Lab is. METAPHORICAL SWERVE. Whadisdatttttteven? See, ahem, see that cloud next to the sun, there it is, Heaven's Meth Lab, says a kindly and very morbidly caucasian gramps with many of his more shadowed gestures of scary resentment draped from clear seeing from the young child [really a vivid hallucination come finally after gramps’ decades of meth use leads to an early onset of dementia, or perhaps she’s there, really, IRL]: some of the scary resentments, tho under the arthritic stiffness of age, get up from sleep to move and thus promote, despite Hamlet's excellent acting advice, a sawing of the air: then again, the man is illiterate, the last of his kind, so he would nort kno: it's 3049 as I witness this in my headspace’s eye, an instance maybe somewhere once, or now, or some time to come: and, schools are free: and when you go it’s quite a treat because all schools award attendance—absence punishable on the first strike by death, who by this point in my half-flower-half-canker narrative must be rolling his lies—I mean dice—I mean eyes. Anyway: the award is, you get extra chicken wire. Every student, 3 or 70, is expected to belt chicken wire round their privates, 'cos also there was a New Jesus that came to town and everybody loved religion a lot more again because there was cold hard proof of this impossible and absurdly limited shit the old Jesus did just to pass the time: I miss Old Jesus, God would sometimes say to his wife, arms boredly notched at the elbow, to be a right amazing keelson to his chin, and not only, but also his very heavy head, the size of what I'm sure is a shitton of stuff and also it probably resembles in diameter [or something] if stretched out all the way, like, the—Bering Strait Lor something the likes of I don't and wouldn’t know whether to say is where—and anyways regarding the good LORD’s mellifluousness that only baffles, turns every definition into a misnomer, is accurate—but that strait. I think, off the coast of Greece? Damne—well, or you can ask that perfect angel with angel hair if you're so fucking curious, tho, mostly he is bald right now—you forget, I speak in oddity and with more than a few mismatched or hard to realize, or rather coagulate, metaphors—but, so hungry I am, thinking of angel hair, mmmmm, pasta, I could eat mere follicles—yes—kinda like Malloy’s ‘sucking stones’ the likes of whom resembles that incorrigibly smdgy-mascara'd starlet of a gramps: in my or that or whatever region of headspace, I ask him for directions, and try not to think about heaps of pasta: like, I’m talking, like, a whole room full, just pasta mads, horrifyingly everywhere and for no real reason either [there is probably at this moment an entire room filled to the brim with angel hair pasta and if there isn’t I don’t know what we could ever do to fix this country]: he'd kno what to do, the skipper: about directions, that is: ah, should have waited for you to put on wig, I say to that old dragqueen, gramps in his skivvies—pantaloons proudly tight and his junklump mockingly tantalizing in its surprising and somewhat disturbing for his age—bigness—no no, sonny,  he say, sensing my admiration and smiling a few extra tads: come into my office and ask a way, he said: but after all these are my wishes, and really he was not so near, was a call away and dead, my dragqueen paterfamilias: but since like you know like because in Futureland, I could talk to ‘im: that is, via the two cans connected with string that as you well know—if you live in the year 3049—separate, and running along [house to house between the dorky kid and the hot new neighbor with tits the likes of which he will end up finding when he sees them, nonsensically disappointing, especially bc when the two after talking on cans forever meet and she shows him hers, well, they’re a good pair, a regular knockout pair, sitting pertly and large and symmetrical, and some day down the line the dorky kid upon thinking heavily will conclude that bc of this he must be either gay or mad, since since then the tits [cans] he’s seen have looked exactly like hot new neighbor’s ones, and the feeling the same, the likes of which he forces as more papers and reports [grotesque office baggage dead in spite of the deadline met early simply by an ignorance of their existence—and how hard the pangs of feeling literally spit on [that word, doe, 4th backwards if you count ‘that’] by the briefcaseman—yes, forgotten by supervisor and so then passionately, passionately in a rage that is, crammed crummily] into the overstuffed and already properly lamed briefcase—yes, into an awkward, abridged sinkhole of what this gawky, dorky kid views in his own—and I’ll add it: precious—headspace as deadened quiet, a quiet he frames in lust, oppressive, like a bad fucking painting by a local artist hanging in the café of a local town with an obnoxious name like “The Dreams Of A Purple Horizon”] and the cans running along—anyway, enough with that discard and let it ameliorate like frost from glass—connect the living and dead, after all, between their respective but not necessarily sensibly divided square footage: as the the the ghettos for the living are much, uhm, bigger: this is what the dead called Mortalist! And you can hear them all say it derogatorily—perhaps—in those brief snatches of wind and rain: and then!, hold your breath, and you just might hear your dead Uncle ask you for change for the next deadguy bus—a swept-under affiliate of the ever cheap bus line, you know, the one in real life—MEGABUS—outside the control of this endless Farce, since unlike it it exists plainly and as what it is: well, Jacob's Ladder: that’s all: so then, here’s that old gramps in drag again, since I never got about asking the gadabout methfly he was for directions—you must remember—as I said—it is the future I speak of now, here, on a webpage: so, I said, Well first, coughcough—and as we were in his ‘office’ there was a desk, thankfully, ahem, that separated us, the immediate vision of each other, mostly—Well first [fist, lol, wtf] I said, clandestinely feeling [hand-imagery] clandestinely feeling the snatch of my required, and daily at that, religious sacrament of especially persistent crotchwire—you must remember that—come close to ripping open my precious lockjaw candy, my balls almost—in my head for fear—yet hiding a gulp of throat, brazen, taunting yes indeed uh, taunting the sharp object wrapped around my pelvis with needledick friggin, shrill, sparrowfart—voices: and even the prospect of a ripping of the nutsak, was enough to bring a near-pristinely orbed—the roof of my mouth could tell by the pressure of released air it felt—pearly, pearly, pearly ‘retch-possible’ of bile from the gorge [so wordy, you fuck, DAN] to the early, nascent shallowness of that ‘throat-part’ closest my mouth—it of course, the nausea, still strong, but the ‘throat-part’ as it was, uh—practically—untouched by the pains, those pains of emerged welts from smoking, being shallow, was still smooth and the gagreflex vigilant: and it would put one at unease, really?: that questionmark was not really a questionmark but more my attempt to find some equivalent in punctuation to convey, 'Hi it's Jenny, still exasperated from the disembodied whispers of the dead on the wind the night before decided to make my room a regular butterfly-museum of, each vowel still as if on a pike?': but, anwya, certainly, if like for example a fine, strong female was sacrificed, like Jenny—but don’t tell her, the dead tell me [secret: I don't even know where she is, or who really]—you'd see an equivalent to what I claim unease at without ever having seen human sacrifice myself: remove the balls, remove your footprint, after all, and a sort of sacrifice for New Jesus [we in Futureland call him Sado-Christ, for obvi reasons] sacrificed, yes, for the health of the tribal commonweal and its constituents living in the BIG, BIG house of messy mind: that uh, to distinguish itself is at the top of a big hill. Also, it is made—entirely—out of stones crafted into billions upon trillions of banana-shaped resemblances, the fruit itself now considered a delicacy in this mindfuck hokum of a Futureland, and more than that a symbol for—you guessed it!—uhm—yeah, you guessed it. Like why the fuck should you tell them what you already know man, fuck, already got too many quaint white folk railing on my honky-hating, pureblood Hawaiian Existential Philosopher ass for loving the flaws you express, without this crude elucidating, say this new apparition, before me, or somewhere where I would be unable to see my hands and so then a place not entirely useful—but, ooo, I think to myself, another wisp of ghost for the half-narrative [where’s Freckett, btw] ahem: this particular badly-mannered [uncouth rather. ‘Oof’ I hear him bemoan in a clear, crisp onomatopoeia. I can’t see however that he’s clutching his gut, after a BIG, BIG meal, as the man/apparition [the man, really, I hear myself insist] is dwelling in a place or confusing lapse or hzardous dimension—as I said—where I am handless, thus powerless [to stop indigestion]] Hawaiian, spitting often random grit while saying nonsense thru his nose like, “Mra, muhm muhmra nomnom, a plori [smudgements [that there’s my insertion [could not resist the wordplay]]] jutchents” or “Krant’s Matagorical ‘Mpretive. Yerh.” This of course is a description’f when he talks at table about the cosmos to an venerated arena [Smimposium ‘erks petter, d00th, say Lunching Hawaiian [good advice, but stop with the brackets] or symposium rather—before him, a vast sea of listeners—oh my humble brown wackjob, oh, this deluded correspondent of netherworld, I love you—of, of course, silent dolls of the porcelain variety, [I say that wordier way of it bc in this world, this handless world, everything breaks down to atoms, and ‘of a variety of’ is surer—in being more careful and vaguer and odder—than leaving it at ‘porcelain dolls’ which, if left as descriptively as porcelain, that is, sans at least an attempt to crimp the reality of meanings and acquiesce, tho blind, to doubt, would risk the material dissipate [disappear’s better] into a sea or abyss of a sameness that in reality everything is—of course, bc otherwise there wouldn’t be an idea called ‘everything’—supposition that, but eh, all in the name of fun, eh?] cracked yet also alarmingly well-preserved with daily-attended polishment, which is not a word, and with [bandwidth], in place of the button-eyes and creepy smiles, two magnificently rendered, lively clichés: the button-eyes nshit, yeah, bravo, bravo: fuck: these dolls, doe: whom, most definitely, never actually consider eating the miniature—and poorly painted at that—representations of plastic chicken legs and peas on these miniature plates. He say, this thing or apparition or whatever, or character—with a casual disgust that, really, admirably, has, somewhat, a flavor of maturity and even theatrical gravitas . . . “How rude!, damnable!, his only friends anymore, to think.” O Literate Hawaiian—“Innisher meal ammmith!?” He say, pounding table, disturbing a few of the dolls to the ground, effectively killing the fantasy—for today, at least—anyway, anyway—he is a flaw-fetishist, confessedly [ah, that explains the honky-hating, since we’re perfect and flawless—he should treat them white dolls better, yes sir—screams the curious, erudite and open-minded [lol! What a riot] Aryan Neo Nazi who will never read this and hasn’t been to Iraq and also eats shit for breakfast, you know, keeping his digestive tract redundant for the kids. And this is me: and, if you are, dear friend, shoot yer stupid self]: the Hawaiian guy fetishizes JEAN PAUL SARTRE'S beetle-like lips [as he is as I said a philosophic sort], at least, what he can see in pics—right-o—but, oddly enough not the lazy eye!: why, hell, I mean, from what I can understand of where I am now to liv out the rest of my days, forgetting all the nestled aspects of drugs and UCONN: well, among the metal-clad [by now you get my drift with that [chicken wire] way over back there, before the beginning of this whole damned rant about an ill-mannered, educated, completely deranged Hawaiian that plays with dolls and probably doesn’t exist a lot more these days—being a dweeb, a choiceless occupation in Futureland expressly, mortally forbidden: except—and here is my empathy for creating this weird fucking character [o and the plight of this all!], just in case he actually exists—except, that is, in a place [headspace, etc] where I can’t see my hands etc] [repeat, please, for the sake of clarity, d00th] well, among the metal-clad populace of flaw-fetishists, by the way a big percentage, THAT [SARTRE’S lazy eye] was the more prominent oddity: and the one more often seen as overlooked: as there had been a big boom of SARTRE-LIP-CORTISONE already and that form of idolizing became more like a tired fad for wannabes—in the old days, that is, which from my viewpoint is still expressly ages ahead starting from when I write this, speaking for a sec IRL, in 2014, and in terms of the frank, frill-less now—when dweebs were more hauntingly invested in it all: back to the future: once there, they, infesting all the day clubs, drove out all the cool school-prisoners who liked Sartre's Lazy Eye, and ‘really chafed their wires’ as the saying, absurdly enough, goes: day clubs are still the only places allowed outside of schools to go to: luckily everwhere else is a day club besides schools. As I am at present [?] on the street watching dwarves in the rain scream at the slurry of guts and blood emerging from the gutter connected to the local prison, I can assume this, as neither I nor thay ar being accosted/yelled at by cops with flat [BIG] noses: are, at least, were, not anymore, that is, coughcough, who knows, and what time it is: METAPHORICAL SWE- and thus the golden tho predictably difficult rule [metaphorical, tho why even clarify anything, anymore] is broken, and I’m left in a tide of narrative I try to get back, while everyone, every character in this sweeping mind's grid, tells me to get off theirs, entering in and out of my bedroom cruelly, without knocking [IRL[?]]: and that my motives are questionable: that's what I'm thinking about: that’s the speaker of the now, somewhat like the METAPHORICAL SWERVE. I have good motives, says this other whisperer through the can from a cramped, measly five-soul suite [damned soul-segregation] about the size of the smallest mote of divine matter, to no one on the other line: to make a diagram of the location of welts on throat that would’ve had me gagging forth a ‘retch-possible’ into a ‘definite [wretch] retch’ would be nice for a reassurance that I wouldn't gag out lumpy green shit in front of queeny gramps, in that moment asking for directions that is or was or never was; in fact, I wish I might could get someone to take a throat from the air, maybe Jenny's, and ceremoniously slice it open, you know, for accuracy: I think she smoked: so it is wished, so it shall be done, specifically by the blind lady in the mitred glint of a tankass headdress [all the people in the future are tribal, forgot to mention that and then bring it back [back, hm, back = leitmotif?] to mentioning, you know, to really make it permanent—but also violently syllogistic. Ah, the god [ooops, oops, good] ol' days. Unclearly-colored in my view, besides—a dull fleshtone—lumps. And then I think of that. Come soon enough: and, besides throat, on the lungs too—cancer/emphysema, man, no fun, luckless ducky-depressive, you, bobbing in the good lord's bubblebath—I’d imagine not me but ol’ deranged Hawaiian guy spinnin that glib yarn of complete droning gibber [glone]: ok stop: and now, to gramps again, upon expressing the first request: Next said I to the draggy, smudgy gramps, wishing the nearest and most obvious spinnable globe zoom right up next to me. Next, I need a place to buy hard drugs, I said, with a smile, as my tie shifted on to a tighter notch on my neck of its own accord, not because 'God Willed It" but just 'cos it'd never happen, because in essence it is magic and magic doesn't exist except here, except that Johnson guy: you know, the guy, whatever—that guy Mxwell Shears Johnson who impregnated fifteen million shallow-cheeked, uppity women using a time machine: guess it was his thing: I think to myself, that'd be more an argument to which one should lend some of these myriad thoughts: that is, to science: all this magicalness should be for it to figure, or in threes, patiently: I’m thinking about somewheres way liminal you see or summed into a shape of grace to stun St Peter upstairs. This BIG shit here tho did cool stuff for awhile like turn stuff into different stuff—but—you guessed it!—the Futureland version of 'crown of thorns' is a wee more sadistic than I can do with, or rather more sadistic to the wee: compromising its state as a permanent attachment as I’m sure it did by the end of New Sado-Jesus' sojourn—throughout accused wrongly by Norlap onlookers, yes, his poor, emotionally sensitive legs even seen to move as a guileless saunter. METAPHORICAL SWERVE.

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