The answer my friend, is blowing between Tennyson, Dylan, Adapt@ion, and various images ensuing. I was thinking about my Unix aliases from the Harvard Faculty of Arts and Science (FAS) days, where the following seven were my mainstay:
f finger wild k kill -9 s source ./.aliases j jobs p pine a pico ./.aliases x exit
and so it is naturally with great disappointment that Lamarck Warp-O... or is it Darwin Mach-O with the ship’s doctor, Bones, oh yes, skin-and-bones was one of my delightful nicknames in Napier, obviously the locals had not seen flagellation nor S. Maria della Concezione... that at least one of those commands was lacking. Wham, as I was Jamba’d at ℏ2t. I was thinking of the Naked Civil Servant, Quentin... Crisp Apple, All Natural Energy Drink, All The Energy, Wicked Good Taste. Be A Force Of Nature. More Nature Than A Sunrise On The Chuck.
Very touching to have that little personal zazz... assuming Chuck isn’t a prod at whatever is prodded, behind the (hopefully not hydrops angioedemic) uvular research told me once during Trotsky’s Transitional Program of the leaking 802.11 wifi signal, oh how badly that hintingly flew suggesting the insult was being rubbed deeply into my unknowing festation.
And that is the entire purpose underlying my blogs and compositions and videos and everything reducing my life as one would in making raspberries of the correct consistency for, say, baked mushrooms with aged camembert inserted, of quite some time now, soon to be of late time, but of whose what THOUGH we know why and anyone in their left minds (for FUCK THE RIGHT ones), which I know not whether it is creative or rational, or just the half we have to ourselves, if at all (I don’t think my outside, if we have two halves, is mine, even, such as possession involves repossessing bailiffs (for it takes more than a posse of pussies to Aha me in Swedish animation). Now, Men Without Hats, and their fair maid not quite a-milking, we are clear there, minimally honest, and I will not beat around this bush any longer and ask eagerly, are we going to make, out of interest or out of Cinderell[bad ]a[tti]-tude, then lament the loss of grace in others, and have to grapple with the prevalence of Janus and his prix fixe, dis-.
The last thing she said to me, somewhat predicted by an opera of all things, which makes this feel very much as if the rotten ones fall in the same buoy, was just beyond the shadow cast by Peabody Terrace preso a the Baattle Zone, that cellphones that flip or swivel have moving parts, and the more moving parts, the more things there are to break. Memories, as leaking and small and staining as they became, hurt. I am [non-prepositionally] the verge of a nervous breakthrough with not glass shattered and no writing in cursive script which always involves a Sisyphus slope (which would most effectively be a cycloid).
I was going to write about Erik Satie, but I did in the Tumblr blog. I broke my lease today! I have a great landlady. Amf, about to run out, is pretty happy about this. But given our looming ahead, where there’s a weave there’s a wave, and that could be a goodbye wave. How those pan out or burn in, chissà, solely you know. I recall talking about touching in Tuscany. As for hardwood floor, if you don’t mind cleaning the paint stains and END OF THIS WRITHINGLY OBNOXIOUS ANTIPYTHON of dis-virtù. This Wicker Man, Manchurian Candidate, wraith of thoughts to be inhaled or imbued, like I used to say of the fascists smoking their ambulatory way (if moving at all) on fitness courses in Villa Ada, fully donned in their snugly-fitting apparel, their fitness was gained only by osmosis.
Smuggle, snorgle. Get under yourself for your own safety and pleasure through elimination of possible allies or alignments or marely, or malignments or airly.
How many ghostwriters does it take to fill my bed? Moot. I sleep on acoustic baffles, and leaked feathers, down on the floor, where even weirder things would happen were it not for that minor precaution, which I extend as often as possible to avoidance of sleep, as dreams are, well, “You can steal my memories, but you can’t steal my dreams” I said to an ex-gf on the day of x-ing as she tried to blemish our memory by rewriting her role. A rolling stone gathers no moss, proverbially. But ascerbially, I am not entirely sure that elegy has been tested for or stung as as a swansong. Stung as a wasp or a bee, making a beeline or b-line spine streetcar to allston or just in power, the strong man of scaffolding, ponteggio in Italy with trompe l’œil behind-the-curtains of good taste imagery which fools one. I dreamed of having a booth, up some stairs, where people could visit and pay me 10c or something grand like that, and they could ask a question about anything. I would write them the answer. Nothing mysterious, just information. READ ABOUT DISINFORMATION.
Never expecting ideas to be, well, an inadvertent experiment in how I think I have described those who blab within my earshot at least, “secrets”: Radio Rachel for instantaneous amplitude and envelope follow, for whom a promise of of-course-Mum’s-the-word then the whole virtual or infinite or etc..... corridor knows. Perhaps it was one of many man y-chromo some hints, or smugnesses, or sillyness, like floodgates open or power being over-rated by a spin doctor (a break dancer? not yet, anyway), the story WILL be known (but streams rapidly filled craggy valley with non-laminar turbulent flow). It was tempting to write, one will never know. But, opaqueness, or ill-treatment of refractive Angle of Incidence: there comes a time for the death of very poor behavior. A list still being formed, but pretty telling and mostly told as it is, wearing thin, feeling old, I shall not. And, rotten to the core, cors, cord, chord, accord, quad core duo even when threaded correctly. After a while enough Gordian knots just negate negate negate and the result is a yawn, some swallowed flies or worms depending on deepening, and with n-removal, yaw with pitch and a drum roll speaks a thousand colors and hopefully pure lines, from that decent can.
Get it? ’bout bloody time. Four inland umpires. And one countdown to Steer Roast. The Iceman Cometh, with a typo in the subtitles, a duet on the roof, sounds like that one from Cat on a Hot Tin... Stannum... Plumbum... to unmount my drives, Resist and Employed. A dream I had, that a chauffeur (not Honfleur of Satie’s faction, nor a chaud dog, though a chow times two, and here despite I’m awesome not a dingoed basketmaker) was shared between those two disk names (kind of), Employment and Broadband Noise Gating, also with, the dream told me, something arcane or an arcade or pergola or with roses growing or snowing, the details are that oft-recalled white out of Mt Erebus, a blur. But only a mirror spoke to me today, and while that is a scary and scarring image in general, the past few days are unsettling in that I-won’t-settle-while-settling way. Nod to X-gene, not Y ⟵ not a veiled reference.
And, yes.
We are advised not to say “The key to this piece of music”: when does discernment become more scientific than feeling by heart? I suppose when the piece appears to be in two keys. THAT IS KEY BUT I STILL GRASP FOR STRAW, AND THEY TURN OUT TO BE MEN, OR LAST ONES, AND CAMELS ARE GRUMPY UNRELIABLE BUSES. Dunedin buses were also brown like camels. Dromedary didn’t give me a spellcheck alert, so I choose well. I doubt I could name the other in all seriousness.
Thoughts of gasps of clasps of throats
Of necks and lace and a place to choke
Of threat or a joke and my class just sang
And made it all worth it, so I will drink with others
port wine aged in a cooper’s oak-cedar cask
And it might be my dusk, my last.
Your deeds will go tooth and combed, in a mixed up way
(He flitted) my mental who know, my asp I’ll hurt and kill
On account of my boa, my bank, my pet,
Directionless and needless to say:
Cat a tonic.
So I stay dumbed, deafened, and once late
Cops beating up black queens gayer than thou
Unjust for the B-line.
My own B-line. Not a pick up line, but a drop down menu,
Cuvée, missed the game, how can we play ball,
And when is the space for anything I have said or will say.
Bye for now.
I understand.
[ ]Id[ ]est[ ].
The interrogatives are drunk and enemies and
Um, friends? Any? Ever? At least I was useful until I (was) found out (side the inbox).
–lasers’r’us, “The every way which but loose cannon to be recited as round about mid??night.”
P.S. The scream-play says, tell YKW I never stopped loving, how could I stop loving, even a myth, but due to a typo, that could have been math.
And, yes, the nth type of floodgate opened. And again,
