3 November 2005

Pan Fried Egg-uardo, a Caucus

Good-bye small hands, good-bye small heart
good-bye small head
My soul is climbing tree trunks
and swinging from every branch
They're calling on me,
they're calling one me...

Testing, testing, reel and wail... It's a mad world, you realise, full of mad people with mad problems, so much so that they spill right over you, into you. It's trouble, you see, tragedy that you seek, a right turn, a left hand twist, a rocking chair in mission oak and sable. Powerful things seem too impotent to take such egregious importance, toys out of their box, strewn and wood hewn, a dismembered assembly of the blind and lame, plastic soldiers spared for a moment in the swale of attention breaking. Peppermint now, a distension of leaf and spear, a night of long knives and drooling sand at an oasis only dream knows, coming lately in the gala mask of seasons' brother, does now in turn creak blackly ill a rust tin hyphae snapping lid-like. No neutrino or quork bouncing in silver ether aromatic on bent rings could bleed such field to gauche logistics, a tête-à-tête on the old aluminium girder. Chinese radio sunken in at the rivets a sound similar to out of tune harpsichords plunking down a step stones, pond to pad to rift ripples clutch, and a floating falling blossom of tiger trim feeling. The decay remarks of the un- and irremarkable, the stakes falling from favourite to keenest plain of materialisable orange paper, such gracious gravity to swarm and curtsy and goose-like howl with a flutter. It's all past the religious state of rite and wrong number, an idea of stolen hiccups and antiquated estuaries tripping on the opposite side of indifference, rooting for apathy through the eyepiece of electron monocles, a manic view of insensitive dust scattered out on the toy room floor, broken shapes origamied and shang-hai-painted on porcelain lips. Myriadic pygmalionites, a crackled army, sycophantic pools of carved-shadow organs forcing thrombocytic chateaus down the pulling juncture of hip and belly friction. A pause in the examination, a check of sound placed verbs, does this make new sense, warp the current syntax into obelix and asynechdoche along the caudal parameter of our very fine vicryl line of metacholic existence?

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