Thursday, August 28, 2008
did I ask the Utahraptor what it dreamt of on the edges of the world; did I see past the straggler and the bee? Of what wonders haven't I seen, here in this worksop, workshop, wondering tree, if the moment is the bibactic tornado that one makes one wonder why, then why did I await the calligraphy of the ochoa tree? Have I seen through the wallaby of Deep Time or am I just a monstrosity awaiting understudy? Who calls the silence of the gams, of the tornip flunge, did I see past my own monster machinations, or am I the descent-wonder in the middle of the turnip? For the machine that is at the beginning of time in some kind of topologically nontrivial lamentation had no one to wonder that the refurled matrix of chance is some kind of jaundiced galornia? Did I say that correctly? Do you wonder what I'm hiding or what I can see through this turgid bee? Am I the answer to the unasked question, awaiting a sight of a moment now once lost now once found, in the certainty of the skylarks and the ragarobot robins maestro ask me to restate my questions because I am often not to be excepted or expected in the the turnish gout?
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
argumentation a kinetic mastery minus the pleibian wiz-baz -- fifty to ten, awaiting the chirugeon, the master hand-man, the pleonasty of Saint Strindhop, the following of the monstrous pleasure that is turgid and frightens with mention of the human meniscus: the terrifying nature of the human condition lurges and gurgles and thrushes and rushes, inside out and outside in. A basic misapplication of the notary republic, a careless lost tooth or a matter of dental urgency, a blurry messenger stirring the teacup at the end of the line, all tickets please, all tickets please. We will be making our scheduled departure from the Great Human Family, only marmalade excluded. Please amend the statement. Please rely only on the provided items, the mastery of a tentacle, a glyph from an extinct language, a bottle full of high grade religious liquid, a kinetic artist. The Reality Combine is not for use by das blinkenlights, so prepare the wall error and await the arrival of the appropriate pigment molecules.
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
In the lemon: a magic communication, a jester says "In the time that the age was lost, I had many a moment to refract and continue in the ways of the tornado" or something that involved a severe application of creative effort, a magic cauldron on the mustard sea. The proposition and the riboflavin involved have a certain lack of impartialty, but oh, what the hey, no one is paying attention to them, they're just kind of sitting there, waving their arms and laughing at the sky, like somewhat uncertain elephantine constructions and I was slowly snoozing and just not being that attentive to the passing clouds of incoherent light and noise. Like a beach show or a shaving rig, on a behemoth lurking under the massive mud undercurrents trolling and lambasting and then moving on awaiting a resolution of the disastrous levantives that had me rollicking with laughter at the end of time, searching for the bombastards and the enemies of the toquefuges, a centrifugal lamentation or a scleral waltz had a focus unliveningly underinviting and then proceeded to interiorify the clambake messengers at the tempestuous note that I wasn't saying anything at all and noodled to focus and forget the terrors of yesterwhence? In the event that the inaccuracies did not accrue I had a peregrination which I had to be attending to and then I had to be leaving because I thought that I had overstayed my welcome and the majestic undertellers had mistrusted the unclear mango grove that I had seen at the end of the road, readying the censer, incense and myrrh all raring to go, all prepared and divided into multitudinous parts (I wonder what the greek of that happens to be),
Friday, August 08, 2008
Thursday, August 07, 2008
Doctor Wengzvoknow E. Writheleigh declared that he was unaware of the declension of the nostrils, a bottom or a box of sulphides, a paradoxical extension of his favorite wallaby, a binary misaccomplishment or some type of electromechanical approximation that had to be carried in thousands of parts ofrom here to there, a kind of citrus scented iguana bee. Dr. Writheleigh had a mismanaged series of notes that he had collected throughout the years, all written in disorganized fashion with a poor rabbit-calligraphy pen and a pair of quantum calipers. All with a jazz-hand and a razor-tongue, he accomplished much in his stay at the Craihghar, a plenipotentiary gas-barge or a wullins or a mustard god or an insect-telegraphist might have a tourniquet and then communicate with the gasgrieves of the collective misunderstanding: sighted by the plenitudes, Dr. Writheleigh had declared that, upon pain of peace, "The basso profundo of the ghostgas leaves me not discontented. I am the gas giant of the rhomb! Oh, my plenty lissencephalopathies requires more than I can manage in some type of half-time", amongst other less thoroughly thought out epithets and swears to the Bananamatter god. Like someone with a charged muon might pass for a countryside inspector or a galactic tollbooth operator with cigarillos and a lapsed subscription to /American Fundamentalism Coffeeklatsch/ slowly smouldering because the fifth of the toke had some kind of polycyclic aromatic hydrocarbons just laying about. Or else. Or someone completely different with no relation to the Queen of Belgium in the year -130,304 R.Q. (Reliquary Quotient), to misunderestimate my nuclear approximations, a fundamental nutjob with a preferences for isothiocyanate snoobies in the back room and perhaps having a c3po moment with the font aristocrats before the third reel shows, and the networks that we rely on have nothing to fund their badly tuned communcations and communiqués.