crawling out of the steam train

scraveling burberry pies, or conqueso the conquistador stumps about on peglegs built for two. there’s dreams and then there’s dreams.

aside from the scrabbling and the hunchbacked caterwauling (or bellringing or spellswinging), it’s all the time devoted (a devotional writ in glue) to carrying on about this or that. but, contrariwise, there’s a sense that, wow, if the disasterations can be held at bay for just, like, five more minutes, who knows what fiery blossom of passionate effulgence–a gargantuan explosion of spherendrical cakes and ale–might be happenstancing?

transmutation of simple elements or a transmogrification of the brainmatter which makes up the day to day. or, rather, should say takes up the day to day. carries that mundanity as far as it will go and farther. who’s to say that’s bad?

mumble mumble. ???

jove cracks a joke and the dies split with laughter. the concatenation of scurrilous scatalogical and dreary blowsy fleshisms. what body would, if we could, inhavit, if we had no other?
contrariwise, all the seas in the world wouldn’t launch those thousand ships. or, what i mean to say–without those barracude words intruding, ripping the flesh off my cow-of-a-brain, that ruminating muncher of–it wasn’t her face that launched the 1000 ships.

toe the line, milkman! keep your trousers on, carrier of protein-packed bottles of milky goodness! (and here insert: a screeching graham chapman dressed in his best housewifey finery) (which means, of course, that the milkman is probably m. palin, nervously clutching his trundle of milk bottles) (and here the mind plays tricks, because i know that it wasn’t g. chapman at all, but an attic filled with aged, entrapped milkmen and a coy, seductive (for a milkman) carol cleveland) funny the televisual visions that recall from time to time, completely disrupting the thread of thought…

or, if you can call it thought, i mean and not just the meandering fizzing and futzing of some neurochemical stew.