Saturday, September 15, 2012

An essay

This is my chose n diary. Of pentecosts, rupteries, nursling homes, descritions and many more words I will never understand. Smoke has blown many words here and there since we last examined the lexical map. Adamant has settled on its surface. Its axes have shifted, its edges are wroughten, elemental muteriorations have changed how we even dream. Japan is exploding with rage today. Yesterday, we had an Terrabytic shift at High Tea. The other day the volcanoe overturned, and Yourrope got laved in red and gray. Last week, the kids threw Miss Indronesia into a tswampami. I love how Gaia rocks my cradle, but this is getting a bit too much. It's like a roller-coaster, I think I'm going to throw up. And so I spew out words, and endless stream of blood and nuggets, a physical nausea overwhelming me unless the ink flows at a minimum of cusecs to keep the damn from collapsing. Cue... sex. All that this Newwell Degeneration of tueday thinks about. Ah, these youngsters don't know how to vous anyone, even the weemen they love. They've even forgotten their wowelles. They don't understand what they're reading now. French is a... a... kiss. No, it's a movie! No, it's FRIES you fukkindidot! A disgust of wind has decapacitated the last dandylion. It thought Oz had made it brave, but then the wizard turned back into a Green Goblin.

Where are we to look now? You and I, standing hand in hand, amortously facing the dark? You and I, lighting the dark, burning up our worlds and ourselves in the fearsome intense breathlessness called love?

For Macondo

Melancholy whours of night
Peter-Pater through the pipes

Words swarm across the mosaic
Blue hands inksolvent
Love bursts, raged, staining the walls
Cliff-crags without birds


Screens of death
Midwater skies
Twelve bars to a line
Artificial eyes