Sunday, April 24, 2011

Excerpt from the forthcoming 'Dean of Daft.'

Meaty hands are the simpler version.
Obligatory hug peanut-shaped - gets pulverized.

The phrase 'You're All Toast' definitely struck a cord with the party streamers, their first real glimpse of a world a little bit crunchier.
Tragic umbilical fluorescence.

Then the autistic typist beautifully coded a mood for our mutation –
the porno store had captured it in a small measuring cup.

My roommate cooked up gristle of emergency Hot Pockets in huge earthenware vats. Chemical protoplasm with too complicated a flavor for a silver wrapper to stomach.
Velcro dollar TV dinner – ripped off with a patch of black hair.

Steam-powered Valentine's Day chocolate, bursting at the seams.
Animated gif takes a turn for the worse. Polymers any gnostic would tell you are superfluous - teeming on the blind side of the red cosmic skein.

Hooters pathos lost in the drudgery of a squeegee, a servile silhouette in the tent disguising the pig brains in their eyes.

I don't mind our Thanksgiving dinner getting carpal tunnel from all the twist-ties keeping it together - should gangrene form in the segments and finally rot off in hot dog lengths, many new and exciting hot dogs could be made.

The entire psychiatric ward was in my hand for at least 2 minutes.
Said the stoic alpha male, staring into the beating heart of the cough sweet – which had now returned to normal.

Whenever I see a Subaru, I think of embalming. I do not think of death, however - I think of a cork, happily incubating in the neck of a bottle of fine wine. This is not a mummy state. Far from it – it is a heavy object losing its footing and instead of crashing to the floor, remains forever floating. I believe myself to be a self-healing paperweight. A ghost, on a flesh-scented hotel balcony – staring out over a dry ocean bed.
Yes, there is dryness.
Climbing in, I think of myself kind of as an illegal intruder – a smiley face sticker on the inside of the Tardis.
I do not travel to other dimensions through cream or fat, in other words.

Press a button, and the Walkman falls apart.

His body lying unresponsive on a patch of a grass, the debate of the group of boy scouts who'd stumbled upon him forever ranges over whether to empty the contents of the Swamp Thing's Fannypack – bits of leftover gum eraser, one stapler grossed out by what it had once done to a frog, a penknife full of adrenalin after cutting a scary-looking mushroom, a roll of duct tape so potently adhesive as to be stuck in time, and an ashtray filled with pond scum – and sell it on the flea market or something. 
 
Aces up sleeves at this nursing home, during poker games -
punishable by confinement to a special, sparsely decorated upstairs room.

They tend to get somewhat melodramatic, finally losing all composure and turning into floaty bits of drooping spandex above their mats. One way to recognize the state of terminal sulkiness in otherwise totally unrecognizable beings.
Indeed, shapeshifters are notoriously unfond of yoga - and in consequence way too reliant on stratagems not so much to ease the pains caused by yoga, as to express these pains, so that we might sympathize with them. Around their mats, at these times, you therefore stand witness to the unsightly perambulation of thespian pulp, French bread at an awkward, inconvenient flex losing all of its luster, and knotted balloons trying their darnest to look like sad giraffes.

Dishrag mental image, fingerprint gaining body mass. Screw cap French period wig.

Home maintenance tip: offer your microwave popcorn as bargaining chips to the creepy girl twins that stalk the corridors of your haunted mansion. You're gonna die horribly of screwdriver puncture wounds in the head – weeping blood clots that on closer inspection betray cauliflower aspects under their red shiny veneer.
Reminding you of the small, indeed popcorn-like explosions that take place under the calm exterior of the catatonically shy.

In the eyes of your sadistic pleasure, the victim – not you – is the flagrant offender.

The suicide cult, during their meetings, the formal ones as well as the BBQ and poolside get-togethers, would've relished a sense of harmony and common purpose, a common destiny and the sense of its slow, calm and deliberate approach – if it hadn't been for that one, insensitive jerk in their midst.

Dribbles of Euclidean phantoms vaguely evocative of cows praying, accumulating on the landscape.
Seen by hitchhiking McDonald's employees under the influence of psychotropic drugs.

The surfeit of hand-decorated Easter eggs in the convenience store answers that question – the vogue among women to makeup themselves with lipstick grimaces conspicuously pointing down at the corners. With exaggerated freckles on the cheeks and parodies of whiskers irradiating from the tip of the nose.

Walking in the rain, or the enjoyment thereof – with the ghostly voice of a famous child narrator documenting each step, with a sardonic little giggle at each imaginary, bloodstained milepost.
The worrying condition players of the game World of Warcraft have begun to present with. Returning from each walk with a real, corporeal puppy in their arms. Often to the alarm of their mothers, siblings, or housemates.
Saying, 'If it hadn't been the puppy's birthday, the Child Narrator would have been the oldest...'

A coming-of-age flick about a zit.
Which when squeezed spits smoke – not the usual whitish yolk of really immature zits.

The landscaped garden which for many years had existed undisturbed above the burial ground, in every sense conceivable: having never had the need to be tended or maintained, cleared of leaves, the grass cut, the bushes trimmed.
The plumbing of the cafeteria that replaced the garden, however, would go on to never being on easy terms with the burial ground.

Telescopes didn't gorge themselves on boobs in the sixteenth century. But on planets arranged next to each other as boobs.
Often it was as though the universe was trying to tell them something.

The communal treadmill at the gym – built for heavy traffic, and then some. Able to take 500 joggers, strollers, and breathless flailers at a time. Warmly accommodating. Indeed sweatily accommodating.
But the troupe of Nazi paramilitaries that landed on it last Wednesday was violently shunned.

2 comments:

  1. Awesome! by the way... also WANT this view master!
    Badly!

    ReplyDelete
  2. thanks, mom
    I'll bring it next Saturday, when I come to visit

    ReplyDelete

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