Friday, February 27, 2015
Terpsichorean delights of the most languid kind swished all around us, the vibrations in the air prodding our bodies gently in a sensual rocking motion. Through the smoke I could see the occasional arm, shoulder, elbow, buttock or ankle gyrating listlessly. Oh what a feeling it was. I supped heartily from my flask and continued letting the bass voiced dead man tell me what to do and how to do it, and how if there was something I needed, he would be my handy man.
Thursday, February 26, 2015
Giggling and stumbling, coloured lights flashing all around her periphery, she decided it would be best if she climbed a tree right now. She wrapped her arms around a branch and hoisted herself up against it's trunk, The smell was so rich and fresh and alive. She just stood there for what seemed like hours, her breasts pressed against the solid mass of wood, her hair brushing against the leaves, her nose inflamed with sensation. We looked up at her from the ground, a little worried she might fall, but mostly pleased she was having such a glorious, sensuous time. The water in the creek burbled away.
Wednesday, February 25, 2015
Another day lost. Another day of laying on the porch in the sun, it's rays penetrating deep into me and warming my heart and my lungs and my small intestine and my colon until until they glow with a nice yellow red halo. Another day of reading wonderful words that tantalize my mind. Another day of grapes being dangled into my mouth by invisible ghost ladies who smell phantasmicly fantastic. Run along, day, be free, be lost , be happy.
Monday, February 23, 2015
My mouth was full of butter. It felt so good that I kept on funnelling butter into my mouth until it filled me up and all my organs got pushed out through my pores and now I am just one big old walkin', talkin', jigglin', singing', dancin', lovin', tub o' butter. If you squeeze me some butter comes out my pores like a Ryvita biscuit too. Everybody loves the big ol' wobbly butter man. Come on over and get a buttery kiss, now.
Sunday, February 22, 2015
Buttocks as big as mountains. Perfectly formed, splendid things. The villagers made a pilgrimage there every year before the harvest, climbing to the top of the buttocks and kneading them all together. Nobody knew if they were connected to a giant person or something else underneath the ground, and nobody dared go on an underground excavation mission. Some things you just didn't mess with. But they were alive, that was for certain. They reacted to touch and to heat and to cold, breaking out into great basketball sized goosey pimples when the sun went down and the winter chill set in.
Saturday, February 21, 2015
A little bit of rain, at just the right time, is just enough to send all those good feelings rushing to my head. It blows up like a purple balloon and I go floating off into the sky. I see the city lights below, I see whales eating sharks, I see giant oil tankers spearing the whales, I see alien space ships flying down and zapping the oil tankers, then I decide to get in on the action and I float down and grab the space ship and shake it all around like it's a can of sardines. I can hear the aliens bouncing around all over the walls and feel a little bit of rain on my face. I smile with a horrible grimace.
Friday, February 20, 2015
I sat down at the piano and attempted to play, but being completely untrained, unpractised and unco-ordinated, the sounds coming out were not especially harmonious. The piano whispered to me, "gimme a little drink, and I'll play myself". Then it winked with it's keys. So I opened up the lid, got a bottle of whisky from the cabinet and poured a good splash over the piano wires and hammers. "Oh yes, that's the stuff", said the piano, seeming to leer somehow via it's keys. "I haven't had a stiff drink in so long". It started to play some rollicking barrel-house piano, tipping back and forth in a rather dangerous manner as it did so. I was a little scared I may be crushed, but the music (and the booze, which I also had a swallow of) was so intoxicating I couldn't help but abandon my self to dance and flicking my hair around in the manner of Cab Calloway. After ten minutes or so the piano slowed down and came to a stop. "Now, Boy," said the piano, "make me a martini and I'll play some smooth cocktail jazz for your dinner date tonight."
Thursday, February 19, 2015
Drifting over the tops of houses, down into gardens where pollen floats along and ants crawl around getting busy busy, up through the clothesline, I take some loop de loops through it and continue on my way in through the window of a passing car, the fellow is listening to oldies radio and eating an iced cream while he drives. The floor is littered with greasy towels and wine boxes. the goon bags inside the wine boxes all inflate together and the car levitates. The fellow is happy he no longer needs to steer and can concentrate on his iced cream. He puts his arm out the window and looks at the clouds going by. I will stay here a little while.
Wednesday, February 18, 2015
The horns of the pedestrian jazz funk band, tired of the daily embarrassment at being part of such an insipid spectacle, turned on their players and devoured them. Oh, what a sight it was to see the steel stretch, as if suddenly molten, to chomp away at these fellows. Soon there was nothing left but their funny little hats. The horns, now crazed with bloodlust, headed for the sculpture department.
Tuesday, February 17, 2015
Trudy and Judy looked up at the stars. "Do you think we'll ever get up there?" said Judy. "Someday", said Trudy. "Once they invent space helmets that will fit over our gargantuan heads. And then we can leave this place and never be teased about the size of our heads again." They looked at each other and locked fingers. The wind was warm. "I sure hope that day comes soon, Trudy", said Judy. "But I kinda feel like we're all alone on a star right now. It sure is peaceful out here." Trudy smiled and said, "Yeah". A coyote bayed. Cactus' everywhere held their spines at attention.
Monday, February 16, 2015
When a woman leaves your house and then turns around and comes back, every little molecule in your body starts vibrating a bit faster. You smile just a little in the corner of your mouth, but you smile quite a lot with your pores and all your hairs, and when you walk into the kitchen, you are floating a tiny imperceptible yet perceptible proportion off of the ground. An ant is still unable to pass underneath your feet, but some kind of microscopic bug from Trinidad that is particularly skilled in the limbo arts may be be able to pass completely under you.
Sunday, February 15, 2015
The dirt felt gritty on my tongue. It tasted... well it tasted like dirt. I coughed some up, but Juan scolded me and kicked me in the ribs. "Who said you could let dirt out of your mouth? Cram it back in!" I scooped up the dirt and went to shove it back into my mouth, but suddenly realized I had control over the universe. I made the dirt vanish altogether, then I turned Juan into a frosty chocolate milkshake. I made a stool appear so I could stand on it and reach the straw of this man size milkshake. I drank deeply. The sweet milk of Juan running over my tongue and down my throat was such a sweet relief from that horrid gritty dirt.
Saturday, February 14, 2015
Long strands of gelatinous fluid link my love and I always. It feels good to know we are connected but it can be problematic for others. The fluid is very sticky. Little dogs get trapped in it, and as their owners attempt to extract them, they too become stuck and panicky. The only option is to execute them. The police understand this, and brook us no contretemps. But the corpses are no easier to extract than live bodies, and so we are constantly connected to many corpses, as well as each other. This thought dulls the romance slightly.
Friday, February 13, 2015
Underneath the tree by my house there is a giant diamond. Many years ago, in another lifetime, it was used as part of a laser contraption that was going to cut James Bond in half. Bond, using his British ingenuity, managed to escape being lasered on this instance, but all the same, it was attempted murder, and the diamond has never gotten over the shame it feels in colluding against such a venerable drunken folk hero. It buried itself under the tree so it would never have to face society again. Someday soon I will dig the diamond up and hold it in my arms and tell it that nobody is going to hold that incident against it, that it shouldn't hide it's shininess away from the world. Sunlight should be glinting through it and prisming and all that shit. I will coo these sweet consolations into it. And then I will sell it and buy a speed boat.
Thursday, February 12, 2015
her fingernails and her shoulders and her eyebrows and her eyes and the way she stretches and the way she smiles and the way she stares out the window. I will wrap them up in tissue paper and put them in my purse, and when i am in the park laying on a rug looking up at the trees, I will take them out and look at them and finger their jagged grain.
Wednesday, February 11, 2015
Steel drums pling all through the atmosphere. I am wearing a straw hat and strolling languidly down a dusty road. My head is full of rum and coconut juice. A toucan lands on my shoulder and starts to tell me about a special kind of breakfast cereal. I shoo him off with a flick of my hands. I have no time for advertising now, I've got to try and find this steel drum band. Perhaps Wilmouth Houdini will be singing with them, or at least maybe they will know where I can find him. He has made a proclamation that I, Frank Sinatra, have the perfect voice to sing calypso, and I intend to smack him in the mouth. Nobody tells Frank what he has the perfect voice for. Frank tells you.
Tuesday, February 10, 2015
Eggs splattering on the sidewalk, the gooey remains crawl up the pant leg of a passing businessman, tickling his follicles and nestles in his underwear. he likes it very much, which he shows with a slight upturn in the left corner of his moth. The egg attempts to crawl inside him but his cast iron butt plug has him sealed tight. The egg becomes frustrated and starts to brood. In the middle of his meeting, the egg slithers it's way back down his leg, crawls across the room and leaps onto the face of the Japanese CEO with whom our businessman is about to close his deal. "SEE!", think/says the egg. "SEE WHAT YOU GET FOR THWARTING MY NEEDS?"
Monday, February 9, 2015
Meat sluices through a fine grate and lands in a pool of jasmine oil, becomes fragrant meat, the kind of meat that that tickles the senses so. The kind of meat you want to take to dinner. Meat gets done up in it's sharpest outfit, puts on a hat and some earrings and a moustache and some pearls and a handkerchief in it's pocket (meat is not sure of it's sex and figures it might as well accesorize up both ways), links arms with you and heads out to a fashionable nightspot named Chez Soiree Les Pumplemousse. You and meat eat some other meat and give each other those certain kinds of eyes (meat pins some olives to self to give the impression of eyes).
Sunday, February 8, 2015
I went swimming in the ocean. I swam right down to the bottom of the ocean and sat on the floor. There was such a nice sense of solitude, and all those pretty million year old fish with the bulbous lights dangling off their heads gave the place a dreamy atmosphere. It occurred to me that I should have been killed by the pressure and the bends and all that business, but thankfully I've never really looked into that whole affair, so it didn't apply. I pulled an apple from my jodhpurs and ate it slowly, carving off one piece at a time with a pocket knife I had in the band of my hat. What a pleasant spot this was.
Saturday, February 7, 2015
Struck by this terrible teenage condition, her bones boiled, her head pulsed, her guts constricted and pushed up against her lungs. She broke out in sweats till the whole room was soaked. Suddenly, her entire body cracked in half, and a throbbing green entity stepped out, slimy and cool. It shuddered for a minute and then shot upwards, tearing through the roof and into the stratosphere. It passed the moon and the sun and shot through a black hole and found itself in a place my dull human brain could not begin to fathom. This was a nice place to rest for a while. The teenage creature suspended herself in space and exhaled deeply.
Friday, February 6, 2015
Cheeping birds seem to be saying sweet, innocuous things, "isn't the sunshine sunshiney today?" and "Hello mister squirrel! Hello mister neighbourhood cat!" But what if they are in fact intoning a mantra that is designed to bring a dark spirit up from the earth. Soon, on the sunniest day of all, the ground will crack and quake, great gusts of hot steam will shoot up, burning the faces of passers by and a great horned beast will emerge. The sunshine will be replaced with darkness and lightning will criss cross the skies. That would look pretty cool.
Thursday, February 5, 2015
Snakes sizzle on the frypan. They hiss at each other trying to formulate a plan on how to get out, but their hissings get all mixed up with the sizzling. It is quite a conundrum. All of a sudden the cook slips over, pranging the fraypan handle with his arm and sending the snakes, these very oily snakes, flying out of the kitchen and onto the stage. The jazz musicians, wrapped up in the deep concentration needed to perform their art, do not see the snakes coming and are horribly burned as these snakes covered in boiling oil slap against their faces. The musicians scream and run off stage, abandoning their instruments. The snakes, not wanting to see a riot occur, attempt to play some jazz despite the obvious limitations of their legless, armless stature. They don't sound half bad.
Wednesday, February 4, 2015
The telephone rings. It is the same ring as every other time, but today, this morning, right now, it feels ominous. I feel if I pick up it up, I will engage in something that cannot be wound back, something that will rush forward into an ever faster and darker place until all light is shut out. So I smash the phone with a chair. Then I set the house on fire. Then I lay dynamite around the edges of the entire block, get myself within a sufficient radius of awayness, and push the the squeezy push down, sending my entire block cascading downwards into the centre of the earth. That should do it.
Tuesday, February 3, 2015
Could doomsday come on such a sunny day, when the wind caressed the trees so softly, when the birds sang so timid and sweet, when pianos tinkled out of the house so sensitively? Could the bomb or the acid rain truly fall at such a moment, or would it by paralysed by the beauty of the world, forced to hover in mid-air and slowly retreat like a man who has seen his sweet virginal betrothed turned into a lusty, night-walking creature of the undead? I certainly hope it can wait a little longer anyway. Go have a smoke, doomsday. Go have a smoke and read a magazine.
Monday, February 2, 2015
"Sugar Pie, Honey Bunch, you know that i love you". A sweet sentiment of course, but it does beg the question, how does one bunch honey? Every time I hear this song, I pour jars and jars of honey into a trough, then reach in and try to bunch it together into something approximating a bouquet. but all I get honey all over my hands, and dripping back down into the trough and all over my pants. Then of course the horses butt me out of the way and stick their heads in there, only to be stuck face first in honey. They get very confused and flail madly and the farmer gets right cross with me and chases me out of the place with a stick. Yet every time i hear this cursed song I am willed by powerful forces to attempt it again.
Sunday, February 1, 2015
Rich gravy flooded the city streets, enveloping cars, drowning elderly children and young animals, covering everything below the second floor in a delicious salty goop. As the flood subsided and people came out from their hiding places, a kind of gravy hungry madness took over the entire population. People started hungrily biting into anything covered in gravy. Lamp posts, buildings, corpses, taco stands, tacos, everything was fair game. The sound of teeth chipping rang out all over the city in a horrifying cacophony. God really was a cunt.