CHAPTER 1
That walking erosion, silt waffles eager to badger. Hey beaver. Bay leavers pray on pigs, always ready with a cleaver. Always on its way, but only in the mirror is the parliamentary wrapper flagged and quiverously nearer to the deepest needs articulated by those found to be inferior finds for our people's innermost celebrated dinner host, Necrophilia.
Suddenly the telephone rang thrice like metal studded shrimp sewn in the flesh of my albino mummy leopard-skinned nightcrawler and his carnivorous axioms. Pockets beget geld. Merrymaking is as silent, but not as transient, as gerrymandering. A pity.
Whereas that immortal barge, a wafer carnival conical in odor, texture and appearance and resembling a target, was contained by a concession stand throughout the latter half of the evening, even later than needed for a standing ovation, my impermissible ingress into chaotically harnessed horses made a suggestive connexion where we desired to brand our family servant, Jodhpur, with heated floss. Ouch! My riper tones know surface tension like dwarves delving into rich caves have taken backward steps. The sun over October's mind pains me rightfully. I rubbed my beauty to a shiny gloss before.
Simply to exert control on my hemisphere leaves me blameless. My ducts accept a certain burden of lifeless forms in pudgy vessels upon a green spongy carpet, the moon blessing's bank (wisely at a major convenience). Remember to worship that witch you have forgot, or sometimes called up on sultry forlorn and confused moments for washing. No amount of detergent would deter the dirt. No amount of detergent would balk before failure. No amount of failure could cleanse me from my bathetic mirth.
My pincers seek the nougat that they will hold and yet hang from, loose translucent ribbons and steel flowers. Containers of toothpaste tumble from the shelf, crestfallen. Do not feed them. Vertical spaces play haphazardly with the reality of the subject.
I refused to open it long enough, and it leaked out. The service was lousy, the population of bacteria in the sink was frantically investing. There is so little time; play. The cup was only half full, the matron declined to offer another.
Or you can put it this way: "Don't be in such a huff. You will exchange eyes with the one you watch. Sleeping colonels flopped in cribs of corn. The sky's new spots echoed a hearty Hello. Now fantastical objects are general, and stealing them will result in a punishment which is corporal. You got it; how would you prove it? Look at it again. It is not a mirror unless there are people on either side. Lucy knows this probably better than anyone. Sadie knows those rows of Sharon 'better than any pet [can] tune ya', she would say."
An army of men convinced by beauty to recline gracefully backwards expand into turkeys, trotting a measured mile in a New York minute, beside themselves and others waiting breathlessly in a hole. An army of men convinced by their agnosticism to tie knots into a frog examine various methods of foreplay, just pretend that it means something is amiss in mystery, clamp down on their hard lozenges of guilt while sampling cheese under the open night sky. Changed backwards by a statuesque griffin, I would pensively scratch while taking a billiard shot from the Empire State to the Rio Grande, or, alternatively, soothe various penumbras' shadings in a to-and-fro manner, or, perhaps, clink glasses and sing old songs, eh? The right brothers float on foil and gold leaf in an attempt, or a motion towards attempt that was foiled from the start. So what if your foot is being sucked in a quagmire between beaches? Something landed on my elbow. Will you please refer me to another Simple Simon Signature Series? And that isn't my only objection, either.
The banks of time never close — there is nothing between them — but the taste of chicken is like the vibration of empty space itself, except that it is, unfortunately, full of a zestiness no one can afford. I devolved on pork, and came to know God from behind. Decreased by its contact with divine excreta, the shimmering rod swam lopsided as if wallowing in gelatin. "Your characterizing yourself as a leper is one thing, but equating me with a prostitute I deeply resent," I intoned, caressing his product. Besides mistaking light-years as units of time, I always dated losers.
Plumed and spangled, but not too hesitant to further instigate an emotional coup d'état, my slithering precious bodily discharge hastened to the call. I swept across the plains in a dinghy just large enough to have pride oozing from every crack in its clucking little body. Couldn't I notice how to prevent myself from foraging around for a twig or a leaf in the middle of the woods where a fissure in the desert floor looms alpine on all sides and giants tread above from time to time? Roe and ambrosia, bagels and dreadlocks, all are conniving fools. I felt like three men among them, what with my straw hat and my special chili, what capers I could pull off, what barnacles I could scrape from cactus and pine.
A nuance immortalized in steel by zealous creators lived better in Brooklyn-based authors' homes among raging scandalous ties to meant-offspring affixed still to their respective gonads and wondering aimlessly among the fissures whose greatness is indistinguishable from their immateriality but, anyway, is passable to the stony scrutiny of reason. Say, shells, easy to pick up along the stormy bottom, fill easily with the yeast derived from reversing the baking process of only those types of bread which I eat. Imagine the shock of witnessing infants popping out of pumpernickel.
While you are shrinking, don't forget these items:
1. a dozen eggs
CHAPTER 2
To cater exclusively beyond the urge to entirely redecorate, one's whims need seriously to be fudged before one has a self or two. Smiling window-dressing and concealed indecency expose one to an almost uncertain channeling of strong desires through the sieve of public humiliation, and cows fly. We rely on traditional sandwich form to replace our particleboard-like awareness who is sliced and pressed for our panes. The ardor which replaces zest denudes our descant whirling a down helix a bit too quickly to avoid being pricked by a long tine and found succulent, though not ultimately, by famished chickens perched on kitchen stools piled in heaps around a small Central American altar. Why shouldn't its windows be blackened by the kind of grime which seeps more than it pours onto and around untold surroundings' feathers, making them crumpled and gloomy? Samson bopped me with a kola and I fell dead. Man, that infinite void ain't worth nothing.
I held a daffodil gently and wept into my left side pocket with an almost elfin inanity before mounting the donkey. It shot forward as if shown a carrot on a string, precariously balanced but otherwise entirely edible. Before it could reach, now it could only bluntly gesture towards its swollen reddish-brown tide and its somewhat sullen mauve-gray cheer. To toast with a cracked cup is to assassinate the idea of "Beauty" for which one sacrifices for the idea. For the bad idea, "Beauty" is toasted, which sacrifices the idea and assassinates one for no reason. If this is as things should be, then why now more than ever do you think?
It...
