Tuesday, February 20, 2018

Are you naked?

It's not a bad question, Bert.

Post-modernism depends upon multiple points of reference, or audience/viewer/reader cognition.  You can triangulate a lap dance song, with a woman disc jockey and a sadist, in front of a room full of drunks.  This could approach art, the state of the sublime in its humility, without the artist himself realizing it, or to kiss a toe, hanging from a devotchka's foot, dangling from a car window, and it sends a thrill up through her reclining body.

That movie was based on a true story.  Back in 68 at the Pittsburgh V.A.

So the artist himself may not yet be aware of how his craft is trudging along in the ether.  So to be said, Da Vinci was paid a nice sum to paint a local woman, which he did gladly, muting the entire piece, and hundreds of years later, people stare at that depiction wondering what of that little smile that is not so much a smile, or those straight lips, perfectly at rest.

Quizzical then, in the thinkmeats of the artist, is the very meaning he struggles to catch hold of.  If he underlined it, then it would turn into so much vapor and disappear.  You make a subtle hint, the Jamesian "brushing of the felicities", that so much of the appeal is to listen to the last of the sizzle of the ribeye as it approaches your table.

a chemical the army used to spray on marijuana.

Stuntman Mike says she is "chicken shit" if she doesn't give him a lap dance.  Agamemnon lay dead, his city destroyed.  The climb to Parnasus slowly depriving the brain of oxygen, the world going faded blue and white, looking like a dream, and the tingling from the extremities.

That thing was alive?(looking into the top of the containment drum)

So they say.

Thursday, February 15, 2018

what wonders look down upon our works from mens' stars?

Don't walk away.  I jess axed you a question.  Do you not feel a pressing need to respond to my query?

Need I resort to violence?

I wonder, quite often, not about resorting to violence, but about untold things the lie under the stars.

I mean, we know of the Great Old Ones that came from the stars and forced men to worship them in days of old, forcing small armies of men to toil away at building pyramids and ziggurats, some of which are in the Antarctic ice, or under the ocean floor these days.

I saw of a picture of Audrey Hepburn holding her pet deer, henceforth known as Pippen, in a magazine.  The causes of masturbation are known to be scattered all over the media.

Come here, Pippen.

Poor Old Ones!  Dethroned by a mentally evolving mankind!  Cast aside, for the impotent monsters that they are!


Thursday, February 1, 2018

Sister Abignale and them Lake Nero-Begone days.

Skip to the sweet chock-let:
my sweetheart Sandy:
Got my penny saved,
so I'm her Sugar Daddy.
I'm her Hume Cronyn;
she's my Jessica Tandy:
I want candy.
-Schooly D.

What holds a man together, while at the same time pulling him apart?  Will I ever lose these next four pounds of flab?  What is more epic than seeing the Devourer of Worlds and the Woken/Broken laughing into each other's faces?

Nothing, I wot.

Christmas repeat.

Newborn eyes cry with pain when they first look into the morning sun.

Sandlewood pistol-grip shifter, for the steering column of the Mercury?

If you want disc brakes on the rear of the F-100, you gotta change the whole axle to a newer one.  Don't need the top-end gear, thank you.  I want power off the launch, off the line.  I'll enjoy it up until about 70 mph where it becomes a bit anemic.

I mused the other day, sitting at my dish of round steak and rice/vermicelli medley, that I had been eating the combination, without complaint since my teenage years.  That's a novelty.  The round steak this time, was cut into strips, seasoned and sauted, where in the day, I had the round seared, rather simply, in the pan at medium heat.  I've upgraded from Ms Dash Salt Substitute to Kikkoman Soy Sauce, which is both salty and maddeningly sweet.

My favorite.

These things I relate to you, not to put myself over, but to share the experience, for your edification.  Now I'm sounding like Confuseus all of a sudden, but without the imperious snobbery of his blue blood.

Go Eco-Boost on the Ford Motorsport crate engine, adding a turbocharger for each row of cylinders.  Anything to push past 350 horsepower.  Then go looking for losers who put a K&N air filter on their "buy here-pay here" Camaros and Challengers.

#dillydilly

Wednesday, January 17, 2018

But yet the dullest gleat of foul grease also flashes in the hot pan.

What days we have had!

I have heard the chimes at midnight.

Bobbie Root.  He exalts and congratulates himself, as if in perpetual discovery of his own prowess.

He himself knows not what he can or will do?

His exaltation is akin to the joy a child feels upon using the training pot successfully.  Think of the lad turning to see a small brown evacuation in the pot.  Even the parents get in on the act and congratulate the lad.

I have heard mine own husband cry "COURAGE!" to the field.

I remember an earlier still incarnation saying "I love this business".  He was trying to be the post-modern TNA John Cena interpretation, reminding of sad summer Shakespeare failures in the park, and other such assorted combobulations.  A sad miss, it was.  I hated when they tried to mirror or duplicate their more popular competition.

I'm slacking on the dice.  Can't even have it off without a sniff of the black pepper.

Achoo.  Cousin Marie sledding down the hill.  My cold nose sweats and my hot breath coalesces like so much smoke in the air.

Wednesday, January 10, 2018

Mama was in the ICU.

Y'all remember Mama?  Well.  One time Mama was in the ICU.  She was in her bed, barely able to move, buzzed-up a-twitter on pain killers and sitting up shouting for Deddy.  Deddy had been in the ground seven year then.  At the funeral Mama wore sunglasses and played it real cool.

Solving multiple variables in quadratic equations.  Satellite accident in PRK.  Unfortunate.  Right on Un's palace.

But I got a phantom phone call.  I was busy when the call came in.  Someone else answered, then went to fetch me.  By the time I got there, there was only dead air on the line.

It give me the fear, that something had gone wrong, and I would be the last to know.

Hold the football, Lucy.  Like a good girl. Good ole Charlie Brown is gonna tear u arm clear out the socket. 

Friday, January 5, 2018

on the buying of a book on rectal photography

As it relates to the curve, I was lagging.  I was a bit behind it, you might say.

At the BN bookseller, there was a volume in a dusty corner that caught my eye.  Pink puckers.  Rectal photography, explored, in depth.

With searching fingers, I settled in with the tome, and looked at the secret hidden parts of professional models.  All the while, I thought, "everybody has one", but that technique did not lesson the taboo titillation I felt scanning across those pages.

X marks the spot.

I could then consider myself enlightened and maybe even on the cusp of a dream, but what kind of floating phantasm I could not say until it at last would come upon me!

Open, says me!

Those monstrous stone-carved legs in the sand, and the signage carved: "Look upon my works, ye mighty, and despair!"

Two riders were approaching, and the wind began to howl.

My self-control lacking, I set forth into against the winds, for that far horizon: a line of dark gray against a celluloid sky.  Get meat, ye shutterbugs, for the captain is heeding the prize, even in this gale!

I was uncomfortable down there, off the pictures.  Even so, the novelty was wearing off; the sight of the anus exposed was becoming a familiarity, and in that, the sexual element was rapidly eroding.  Not even a nip on the "bright lights" switch would throw a spark, and the effect was worsening.

Like an azure sky of deepest blue...

The Diet Dr Pepper was room temperature, like any true Epicurean prefers.  You see, ice and cold temperature change the uptake and puts water in the beverage, and hot is just strange and unpalatable.  Therefore the vintage is kept lukewarm, as if it were a middling church spewing from the mouth of the Lord Jesus.

Innervated, interested, and befagged.

On teevee, Wiley Coyote draws a black circle in a rockwall, into which the speeding Roadrunner enters and disappears.  Bemused, Coyote runs headlong into the black circle, finding only his skull clanging into an earthen wall.


Tuesday, December 12, 2017

One-sided True Wuv.

Poo-sie.

"as the miller told his tale...."

She looked at me like she wanted to bite my neck.  Feral piece.  Natgeo-style.

binomial or even tri-nomial nomenclature.  Wayne Lee Ray country.  Where the plates are styrofoam and the dish is humming.

"like a parasite lodged in the fur of the beast"

Two cops were standing there, ready and waiting as the couple said their vows.  The dog was in the car.  The baby was on ma's gf lap.

"the heart that fed"

Does he or she make you feel great, in some way?  Do you touch greatness at all, or pretend and silently hope and soak your pillow with tears in a stupid haze of infatuation?

"I need a bath, granny; I've been playing in the trash again."

Pooo-

--sie.

(Come in under the shadow of this white Grand Marquis, and I will show you fear in a handful of dust.)

Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the lamb make thee?