That walking erosion, silt waffles eager to badger. Hey beaver. Bay leavers pray on pigs, always ready with a cleaver. Always on its way, but only in the mirror is the parliamentary wrapper flagged and quiverously nearer to the deepest needs articulated by those found to be inferior finds for our people's innermost celebrated dinner host, Necrophilia.

Suddenly the telephone rang thrice like metal studded shrimp sewn in the flesh of my albino mummy leopard-skinned nightcrawler and his carnivorous axioms. Pockets beget geld. Merrymaking is as silent, but not as transient, as gerrymandering. A pity.

Whereas that immortal barge, a wafer carnival conical in odor, texture and appearance and resembling a target, was contained by a concession stand throughout the latter half of the evening, even later than needed for a standing ovation, my impermissible ingress into chaotically harnessed horses made a suggestive connexion where we desired to brand our family servant, Jodhpur, with heated floss. Ouch! My riper tones know surface tension like dwarves delving into rich caves have taken backward steps. The sun over October's mind pains me rightfully. I rubbed my beauty to a shiny gloss before.

Simply to exert control on my hemisphere leaves me blameless. My ducts accept a certain burden of lifeless forms in pudgy vessels upon a green spongy carpet, the moon blessing's bank (wisely at a major convenience). Remember to worship that witch you have forgot, or sometimes called up on sultry forlorn and confused moments for washing. No amount of detergent would deter the dirt. No amount of detergent would balk before failure. No amount of failure could cleanse me from my bathetic mirth.

My pincers seek the nougat that they will hold and yet hang from, loose translucent ribbons and steel flowers. Containers of toothpaste tumble from the shelf, crestfallen. Do not feed them. Vertical spaces play haphazardly with the reality of the subject.

I refused to open it long enough, and it leaked out. The service was lousy, the population of bacteria in the sink was frantically investing. There is so little time; play. The cup was only half full, the matron declined to offer another.

Or you can put it this way: "Don't be in such a huff. You will exchange eyes with the one you watch. Sleeping colonels flopped in cribs of corn. The sky's new spots echoed a hearty Hello. Now fantastical objects are general, and stealing them will result in a punishment which is corporal. You got it; how would you prove it? Look at it again. It is not a mirror unless there are people on either side. Lucy knows this probably better than anyone. Sadie knows those rows of Sharon 'better than any pet [can] tune ya', she would say."

An army of men convinced by beauty to recline gracefully backwards expand into turkeys, trotting a measured mile in a New York minute, beside themselves and others waiting breathlessly in a hole. An army of men convinced by their agnosticism to tie knots into a frog examine various methods of foreplay, just pretend that it means something is amiss in mystery, clamp down on their hard lozenges of guilt while sampling cheese under the open night sky. Changed backwards by a statuesque griffin, I would pensively scratch while taking a billiard shot from the Empire State to the Rio Grande, or, alternatively, soothe various penumbras' shadings in a to-and-fro manner, or, perhaps, clink glasses and sing old songs, eh? The right brothers float on foil and gold leaf in an attempt, or a motion towards attempt that was foiled from the start. So what if your foot is being sucked in a quagmire between beaches? Something landed on my elbow. Will you please refer me to another Simple Simon Signature Series? And that isn't my only objection, either.

The banks of time never close — there is nothing between them — but the taste of chicken is like the vibration of empty space itself, except that it is, unfortunately, full of a zestiness no one can afford. I devolved on pork, and came to know God from behind. Decreased by its contact with divine excreta, the shimmering rod swam lopsided as if wallowing in gelatin. "Your characterizing yourself as a leper is one thing, but equating me with a prostitute I deeply resent," I intoned, caressing his product. Besides mistaking light-years as units of time, I always dated losers.

Plumed and spangled, but not too hesitant to further instigate an emotional coup d'état, my slithering precious bodily discharge hastened to the call. I swept across the plains in a dinghy just large enough to have pride oozing from every crack in its clucking little body. Couldn't I notice how to prevent myself from foraging around for a twig or a leaf in the middle of the woods where a fissure in the desert floor looms alpine on all sides and giants tread above from time to time? Roe and ambrosia, bagels and dreadlocks, all are conniving fools. I felt like three men among them, what with my straw hat and my special chili, what capers I could pull off, what barnacles I could scrape from cactus and pine.

A nuance immortalized in steel by zealous creators lived better in Brooklyn-based authors' homes among raging scandalous ties to meant-offspring affixed still to their respective gonads and wondering aimlessly among the fissures whose greatness is indistinguishable from their immateriality but, anyway, is passable to the stony scrutiny of reason. Say, shells, easy to pick up along the stormy bottom, fill easily with the yeast derived from reversing the baking process of only those types of bread which I eat. Imagine the shock of witnessing infants popping out of pumpernickel.

While you are shrinking, don't forget these items:

1. a dozen eggs

To cater exclusively beyond the urge to entirely redecorate, one's whims need seriously to be fudged before one has a self or two. Smiling window-dressing and concealed indecency expose one to an almost uncertain channeling of strong desires through the sieve of public humiliation, and cows fly. We rely on traditional sandwich form to replace our particleboard-like awareness who is sliced and pressed for our panes. The ardor which replaces zest denudes our descant whirling a down helix a bit too quickly to avoid being pricked by a long tine and found succulent, though not ultimately, by famished chickens perched on kitchen stools piled in heaps around a small Central American altar. Why shouldn't its windows be blackened by the kind of grime which seeps more than it pours onto and around untold surroundings' feathers, making them crumpled and gloomy? Samson bopped me with a kola and I fell dead. Man, that infinite void ain't worth nothing.

I held a daffodil gently and wept into my left side pocket with an almost elfin inanity before mounting the donkey. It shot forward as if shown a carrot on a string, precariously balanced but otherwise entirely edible. Before it could reach, now it could only bluntly gesture towards its swollen reddish-brown tide and its somewhat sullen mauve-gray cheer. To toast with a cracked cup is to assassinate the idea of "Beauty" for which one sacrifices for the idea. For the bad idea, "Beauty" is toasted, which sacrifices the idea and assassinates one for no reason. If this is as things should be, then why now more than ever do you think?

It was too quiet to hear noise. Din was easy; could soil ever erode due to deficient D-scale modal systems that punch and flutter in tactical squirm postures? Lamb chop dinner for supper caused an impatient motion, tough as the universal mind rind, to agitate and break, enabling stillness to contradict the general state of inanity in spots chosen for their stews to escalate wildly. Did pucked dollops flick a square tee to teething children saucy to the squeezenosed tweed daffy luckless simian, escaped halfway into a bargain-basement freedom and halfway below that where the shaft lifted a vibration which one could get, rigged by the raised eyebrow on the sheer inscrutable face that falls deep below where you stood so long?

Dilated juice was crammed and therefore meant something swollen to diapered sages just and fell by winding expressly for purposes of helically snakelike movement and its many health benefits. Calliope-playing pranksters added surgeons to shoeshine boys and obtained diamond. Its many edges came to visit you one day. Do you remember? Sweatshirts soaked to overflowing with the byproducts of filth just streaming, just streaming out, and your hair in the moonlight. We rode camels down to their butts and sang nude in the sand: "La-la." Then, after too many orange squashes in a white suit come up to me and say in a loud clear voice with a mustache, once actually an entire being but now only included within fluffy mashed potatoes washed by rivulets of mucus, "What's it when your problems take your body out for a midnight spin, like what happened with Jethro or McGee or that Philips head guy or the toenail clipper? I'll tell ya: momentum. Momentum is what all those guys have in common. Can you beat it when that rhythm washes over your bed as it rolls through a deserted town, past rows of silkenshrouded Bugattis and skeletons counting coins, and you holler yourself into a knot with a graceful, yet imprecise, frenzied whirl? No, and stay there, sailor, because I have something here to tell you and you need to hear it squawk. And like it will really hit the Richter for a bloody bullseye next to some slightly-out-of-focus cauliflower in a saucer dripping gore on terror-stricken matrons and rust on demented art-lovers and other lovers of art, the salt of the earth's sauce of the galaxy's sweetness," something happens. That bony finger always staggers 'em on the street, with its musky, enchanting smell and its ineffable smile getting laudatory mention in several various differences of an uncollected Spartan menu that sputtered and raped a nearby nut, I think a Brazil, with a sort of muted flourish, nonchalantly chewing someone or other. It flaunted its appetizers brazenly whilst tempting various patrons with (just) desserts.

It tumbled long and emerged later still wet to ravage continents where they don't speak English. That's why you're here when you are. Splitting atoms couldn't tug me to the place where our kindred fellows were mutated into pure cholesterol and danced in rings around the sun, all the while melting sadly and wailing copiously into trick little cups that let out onto your faces in rare blessedness as often as you can get it, see? Like, take the analogy of the blistered insect next to the nasal profiles of various former presidents becoming morose and crawling into the lair of the enemy and stripping naked and passing gas while sitting in a puddle on the living room floor just like yo' mama.

Where do the layers meet and why aren't you beholden to them any longer? When you've eaten a sufficiency of your surroundings and sat down with a roomful of pudgy half-grown goslings, swimming in the pools of Beelzebub towards an arch and consumed with an overweening pride like snooty doormen keep tucked away in their leather boots, you'll know what it's like to just-be-alive. Don't fret about how many sheets or how much lasagna you wanted nocturnally, since you would not only be exposed to layers of varnish at a time, but behemoths would liken lichen to Fritz. And you wouldn't much care if my army of ruthless and cunning sprats became absolutely frustrated and sat down on rocks clumsily in despair. You'd go right on in a straight corkscrew, narrow from the neck down, just a few more times as always as never; anyway, besides jiggling frantically I'd say several things at once. The great rainbow-colored sky shook like a jelly roll quivering with laughter and delighted at the choice of matching color in the picnic arrangements planned by the wise men for the benefit of relatively few children. Most are obliged to look on from a distance at the straw baby in a box which is worn as a phylactery while using snowshoes to surmount a large drift, otherwise an obstacle to intimate familiarity with the contents of crimped-shut woks all lying in a large field in Pennsylvania that has more significance for you personally than you'd like to acknowledge. Candied, his face was anything but supple; he gave up (or "renounced") changing his name to Mr. Marzipan after several frightening encounters on the sidewalk in front of his house with a boisterous mouse demon wolfing down cheese with impunity, the swaggering blackguard! and what a mess whenever he ate too many grapes out there.

Prim oysters couldn't reveal the essence of ilk to just another existence-eker seeking an appetizer more highly prized than so many others of various size that fail to attract one to cosmic extinction, but nonetheless comely in their own capacity to attract so many offers of definition and/or estrangement from the unknown. Take a friendly bite which might longitudinally puncture my abdomen in just the right spot to facilitate my intellectual development and my constant awareness of the omnipresence of Elvis 900-numbers scattered throughout the South. I'm flying like a turgid orb heaving through the soft shitty sky region where it is rotting from where it rested on moist ground. Preferably no one cared whether or not the ancient Mayan king, Eighteen-Rabbit, was a bloodletter. Have a cookie in the meantime.

There is a time a few yards away from your typical convention center when your average saint bludgeons and hacks large masses of bloodstained pus and ulcerous material for the delectation of the press, whose collective pastrami sandwich resembles a squirming octopus salad with regard to exchangeable golems and their solemn and noble, not to say grave and uplifting, task that all admit without hesitancy has the property of descending and ascending simultaneously — that's just the sort of task it is. "Cremate me a diphthong, Percy-Phone," cry the townsfolk; you've won a lifetime supply of mommie again and, instead of turnip, they had a partial berry. It sounded a bit squishy, so I turned up my collar and fused with the gaslamp on the black and white streets of napalm virgins spending facial textures as rapidly as and as insincerely as enemy pussy lapping up stolen testicle purée high in a lime tree in freezing weather.

An aid to comprehension is to seek out intense sourness at the critical times when clocktowers usually will ring. Coughing all the time is not enough. You must pick it out with a handy growth of fingernail at certain times, like I said. You must pick yourself to pick it, which is unfortunate because it feels yucky unpicked.

Faith barnacles me and makes me quiver like clasps of naked steel on the stairs which border on gelatin, tranquil in the moon ring's frayed glance through space's hole of wisdom at little starlets in tights over smooth butts, jutting out over buttes cute as dairy cattle wading in a stream. In that condition I'm apt to steam rabbits on the banks of the river of fire, gloating flatulently over kernels and prostrate nubile darlings sizzling their toes with automobile cigarette lighters.

Preoccupation, walk this way into an enclosure I can't remove so that I will finally be able to remove it. An animal without the freedom to forget must always go around remembering everything. Pacing, haggard, motionless, fresh; every kind of fish.

The only way to acquire salvation is to write away for balm and seek the ends of things and of Thing. The string, carefully stretched out, is shaped like a ball. Get wet in the rain of sound until you are burned and leave smiling from the dark circle with your eyes somewhere else, looking out of your head. The candle is above you. The candle below you passes to the zone of directionlessness directly to the left rear and right rear of your head. Detection: mostly instinctive, but nothing less than an inscription on cliffs or bluffs — motionless, haggard, remote. Conical, looking out for your head, Mr. Maximum ambushes the sulky scarved men and succeeds wildly. Thorns on a rose wouldn't rip so jagged a laceration as that ripped by the Master, the Embryo, the Mighty, the imbroglio infusing the soul like dirt in clay infuses the clay with that sort of ripped-soul that becomes unclean from dirt. Logos' nail lies rusting hulks of sunken ships on the ocean floor like a faerie. Pity the beggar who blatantly blocks the fulfillment of the vise by becoming a machine based on the cantilever, bowing and scraping his wig against forest bark, while several pinwheels which protrude from turquoise spots on his backside begin to spin. To mourn the simplicity so flat was but his first mistake. In the silence, it gleamed from a small red eye amidst a sea of noise waiting to happen; as of yet unlit farts, one might say. About the size of two identical raisins, but purer.

Don't hesitate to call up to his apartment if the door is jammed. His number stands on the shoulders of giants, poised on the brink of stardom: "Hey, Donald, what about the meatloaf?"