Reply
Sun 23 Nov, 2003 03:34 pm
The pangolin inside my tongue tells me the kettle is full of Mondays again. Hollow echoes of tangled utensils infest the macaroni of septic dreams. Penumbral anguish vilifies me as the empty spiral gesticulates evermore, and all along the insects of night cackle and crackle within the fluorescent decagons of hybrid monarchs. Clocks, clocks, clocks. Where is the why? The monocular bunnies of horror plot against me once more, and this time there is no storm cloud to hide my disequilibrium.
To summarize: Madness hurts and fish weep, but NOBODY CARES any more.
Care to join me in a bathtub of paradoxical monkeys?
Please tell me I'm not the only one to whom that made complete sense.
Heliotrope, you're not the only one.
It made such good sense to me, I immediately parboiled yesterday's dreams. poured them over the mashed inhibitions of tomorrow's memories and immediately got embroiled -- or, perhaps, enroasted -- in a menage-a-trois with A2K. Sadness flickers like a half-gutted frame in a silent movie.
Merry's mellifluous yet sullen enigma makes me weep droplets of sherry.
You must ask not what the monkeys can do for you, but what the monkeys can do for your shattered mandible.
I'm lost, but could you please pass the bubble bath.
Climb on in, Montana. Just watch out for the tails.
Yeah, but these damn monkeys keep splashing me and I'm getting very annoyed here. Get over there you blasted monkey!!!!!!!
I limberly perambulated across a great rhombicosidodechahedren dancefloor with nothing but 62, 120, 60 on my mind. That and Dali's dripping iconoclasts, mustachioed macho mackerals of time, who climbed the embittered air of roasted squash with buttery, sugared faces, the innocents of badly placed, itineranat rabbit droppings.
That man was arrested for impersonating a speed bump.
Exsqueeze me, while I machinate on the twisted verbiage pixelating across said monitor, as I dip a dainty toe into the barrel of marauding monkeys and mustachioed macho mackerels and squeamishly test the weeping fish hyperbole. If I jump into the quagmire, toot sweet; perhaps I can forgo the initial grimaced shock and swim, swam, swum my way through the delicious absurdity, the bastardized thread of a2k actuality. Amen
Ah, the dancing clown chef (now there's some screwy surrealism for you!..or maybe just surly screwyism) has come forward with his army of fine singing mackerals, rabbits & squash. Joy! Should I dance a merry jig on cows that melt like rockets in the sun while the dainty Ceili frets over swimming through the moonstruck mud puddle of madness in her fluffy white underthings? Should I push her in?
Here, have some more bubble bath, Montana! You need it!
The marmosets were restless in new boots, and the books were staging a protest. A silverfish brooch was made, and offered in the name of peace while a sky of inane viscosity marched in untherapeutic jackboot fashion to the beat of the nurse's wavering dress. "Rubber needles for all it is then," she cried, as the trees shook their heads in torniquet sobriety. "If you refuse to stop barking, you can leave" nurse said, and so the trees complied, and melted into the strange affair of the season.
I met a swan once. It was wearing a cygnet ring.
Who the hell is Sir Reel anyway?
He asked me where does the time go and I told him that Tuesday nights it has chimera classes.
But did he really mean where does the thyme go? I should have referred him to the clown prince.
It bothers me.
I am trying to keep up with this thread. Unfortunately I cannot turn the pages of my dictionary fast enuff....
Both time and thyme wither when old. Where they go can only be determined by the unseen denizens that shake and shiver like Andre Breton and his wife's woodfire hair, in anticipation of the final, cruel cut of life's ignorant bacon. I once met Sir Reel, and asked how many of his brethren it took to change a light bulb? He said, simply: "A fish".
Sir Reel is well known for his arbitrary regional pontifications.
Stumble It!
Tweet This
Bookmark on Delicious
Share on Facebook
Share on MySpace