3. GODBLISTER

The Byzantine Appleseed walked a mile before it found the hole in the ground. Apprehensive of the labels that come with the pit-pit union, he farted like a loose motor.

“Can’t talk right now, Joba. The Clitoris-Bison knocked the wind right out of me.”

Pistol whipped the proxy fell to the canonized ass-basin. Lipped out of control like the doctor he was, he entered surgery with calm like the fleckles of an outward ocean. He recited his chant like he did before every operation.

So the Meteorologists and the Hemophiliacs met on the field of battle. The Meteorologists attacking with reports of ranges of high pressure and the Hemophilias spontaneously bleeding to death in the wake of another witty quip about pond scum. This lucid fractile cannonball was warped when it touched the bottom. I can’t say that the harddrive was overloaded, it just needed a refreshen.

“Sunrise circles my botsky,” his journal spoke. “I’m centering in on the cux of the energy. Brahmidfar s flightless so I’ll have to rest. Becoming more and more energetic for some reason.”

Then:

WOMP! *^@*#%&

All the letters in his journal changed. All the letters that made up his memory were worthless. They meant nothing to him. He might as well have never existed. He threw his journal into the bicentennial parade. Soon it was destroyed beneath the bassoon section. Don’t think he didn’t.

****Interrupt!****

bleep bleep bleep

or

FLASH

Gordon was light.

The Annhauser Gate opened with the crispness of an onion. He ran the gambit and jumped at any opportunity to play the game.

The Whale turns

The last great American Whale. He turns sour and satiated in the love of the Lord. He crippled his own demons. He thanked the plankton that he ate by the ton. The last great American Whale. Watch it Tommy. There’s death in those tomato pasties.

I began again. I began with fruitless stream like the starbeams of some foreign equinox; motionless yet shifting in the pitch of the universe. Tommy climbed the sexpot staircase to the room of blue with heaped intent. The woman who drew was awaiting to awaken.

She said:

“It’s demonstrative, Dominguez

It’s sad, sad, Sally

It’s eclectic, Elaine

It’s total, Tommy

Total, total Tommy

Total. So very, very total. “

“I get it! It’s total! Are we going to have pie or what?!” Shrieking he mounted the La Salle Ave Nickel Bitch. But he waited out the coitus motion monster like a pillar of dust. His head swam in an idea soup that only he could comprehend.

She whispered, “Where’s the action, Tommy?” He exerted and she gasped for air that was not there. Then the vein collapsed. The Nickel Bitch, meaning nothing to the big picture, died. Tommy stumbled back from the bed, the nightmare tingle spiraling around his spine.

The three stepped into the hallway. Choreographed, the glance at one another and then ran. The three ran - Tommy, the Chanting Surgeon and the Byzantine Appleseed. They all had dreamed the Whale.

Slippy Sarah sponged the remains of ther special purple mudbath mixture from her breasts. It was hot here. Hot like the tongue of a jackal corpisized and fangled from the dripply point of a lost lover’s lust. The Madagascar earth and various other pantomime mixtures was the best remedy from the noonday sun.

“You still thinking?” she asked. Nicholas nodded mindlessly. He hadn’t spoke for 3 years, ever since he started a train of thought that he didn’t want to break

“Just keep me alive and everything will be all right.” The blisters had come with the whale dream.

For quite sometime the Mandelnites fumbled. They know not when what happen planch. They couldn’t pray right. Half a pudding made the rounds. Nicely nicely, Mon Amis. The Colfax retrograde ain’t a pretty picture this time of the morning. But in this quaint, dreamy abstract was whore a mother, deformed and outcast and giving birth to a carpet seer. He was called Nex Ext.and wove fortunes and ancestries for the cuckoos of the seer world.

Eldgy made the sounds of death. The empress thing left the nightstand high. Marnie gapulted the wag-shandle perterb’d. Plinx met the Night Cross on the Keel and how. Muted refrestations of the man coming in strong circling down over cornfields, high tension wires. They finally made the cut. Up to muster. Cut to muster. Cut the mustard. Custard.

All the while shadow held the high ground.

Quiet of simple and pimple of blue squate pillney this time. The frost slipped over the blaygen thing like a corpuscle. Sinking in the stink of the lather fad. Of the nausea tomb. Of the paddle back lamplight poet bringers and all the flapplies I can undulate and tamble BITCH! Sorry. I’m so excrementia. Pills don’t taste-write. Smoke doesn’t hang-write over the lash marks.

something like.... our christmas cards are here! where's our freekin shirts?! winter binter oily moon don't add up to much - 'less yer trying to figger out da nomenclature.

try it in 3 easy steps:
1. ebonify the locals. this will cap any rectalfiers from building parks or other such societal postivity

2. draw circles on white construction paper. cut intricate diamonds in the center and pray pray pray

bb. use the WWI style german stick grenade to disarm the pediacs. why? no kids = no epilepsy

444. have more sales, specially on my days off

note****//: http://www.minnieclit.org

none:equivelant to the ramshacks. indians built conical mounds for no other reason than to makes us
say: why did they build those conical mounds. they could see into the future. they will get their things
back soon. soon. soon. soo. sm.o9o   k  inda  week, buut ya gotttta get ba k in thegrooveno?

yeah it is.awwwwwwwwwwloookat the cute dimple on your ass, sally. makes it up as it goes along. strawberry
patch mark could be art work in another light

--------------and speaking of which have you noticed how the light is different now?? i know its always
been this way when the cycle comes round, but godamn!. i'm trying to get something back from wence and i'm
all like: it IS different. it changes everything. this is the psychological effect. not just the leaves/not
just the smells/not just the stir in my soul. soulfulness don't hold much anymore but if you can see
the change in the light - that's real! that's beyond belief - that's JESUS!

too long lonliness
too far away
too old to say i'm young
anymore
my affection well it comes and it goes
but the bond is always there
and the affection comes round again because it NEVER
LEFT!

FFFFFFFFFF             A                   RRRRRRR    
     TTTTTTTTTTT
F                                     A  A            
      R                  R                         T
FFFFFFF                     A     A                  R
                 R                        T
F                                  AAAAA              
R                  R                         T
F                                A             A      
      RRRRRRR                            T
F                              A                 A    
      R                 R                          T
F                            A                     A  
      R                   R                        T
F                          A                         A
      R                      R                     T
F                        A                            
A      R                        R                   T

connect the dots to make a fancy. eeeeee, dahn. ducka dihn.

Are you whisking lusty in the shatbags? Did you read the paperback pimple of OHM and candlewater? This time it seems like the hole is deeper digger beeper fleet. You skunky thing. You draperies. You fundle bucket yuck. It’s steaming around the edges and the castro handle backs are light and foul as we tip our hats to the glad prack. I know the space is rock. I know the words come wet like a split horse. I know that brothers kick things till they are dead.

Loveposts and halo nails come in bags of 20.

tink
tink
tink
bah-rhoooom. vvvvvvvvvt!
repeat.

that's the sound it makes. but the motion is more blurry. like a mandlebrot. Tyne's slave wanders within all da thin tone quavuhs, too. all da semi-quavuhs. all da one full half-tone quavuhs. and in all da simple missing quavuhs.

"quavuh or quabuh?"

"ah-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! indeed!"

see?

no you don't see. (circle around desk, tap pen on
frame of glasses) lemme show you:

see? full. fledged. spasm-sickness. they've mutated, johnny. they've flew the coop. (intense whisper):
they've found a way in.....

The blags moved inside. They seeped between the holes and the hands and felt their way around. Like all the boney they turned on the dime and shucked their husks. Then they danced. They danced like the pissy witch used to dance. They frothed with lackluster tidings and blistered at the thought of the glow. It was as if coming back was the sin. As if they were wishing their way back to the antlers and clay bowls and the shovels. Like some grave yard frequency event horizon in the corner of muted lift. THis had to be the way.

She never said it was the beginning, just that it wasn’t not. Start here. Step. Kill. Die. Draw. Hope. Hail. Grow. Laugh.

The spasmbats die because they don’t eat fronky children. The fonkies die because they give lip service to the carpsides. The carpsides die because the handlight issued a statement. The handlight can’t die. It gels with all the things it once factored and marries that thing over there. Of course.