arrrrgh!

just as the monkey crawls out of his terrible hiding place and falls to the ground, coconuts smashing all over the place, so the roundabouts keep eating up the derrytoes. all the mumps in the world won’t keep that feller in bed, he’ll be eating sourgrass in no time flat. each to his own, the ratterman says, each to his own. and there’s no going back once the crawling starts, that fevered dwelling in a rattan tarp or calico gingham desire. gargling scotch by the typewriter, there’s a fellowfeeling that won’t go down. o feel that acid burble in response and all the time there’s this constant ticking that just won’t quit. it’s all that anyone can do, these days, to eat the cookies in bed without spilling everything on the floor.
hunting the phazing copy, the one that slides under doors and crouches behind catamarans and dueling pirantellos. hup hup, goes the sergeant, and you know he’s been eating too many pastries, with that gut on him. but there’s only so much careful dieting that poses a question of mortality, or some kind of disease which makes it a silly question anyhow.
the pincers pulling out the soul from it’s womblike embrace. or tomblike. that’s the old bag, or gag, the one that goes ha ha, about tombs and wombs and the like.
so there’s nothing that people like more than a good swift kick in the knee.
or the berry growing on the vine.
don’cha know.
it’s all that anyone can do these days.
these days.
writing just seems like some kind of vibrating chore.
and the self revolts against the whole parsing mad of the thing.
tappity tapping all the livelong day. oh, man.
blaming the tools again, like a saucy gnat.
unless the feelings go unrecognized as something else there’s nothing reaally going on anymore. there’s no labels for it. must hook up the brain to some kind of contraption that will open the center eye. the dwelling place of mind.

even though these words are thick and fat as worms, i can’t even begin to feel/fill the page. or so the old greasy man might say. there’s no where to place anything at all.

in the end. that’s all.

but it’s not enough. it’s not enough at all. the grass growing greener. will that filthy thing be waiting there too? can it, monkeyman.

or even the ferver can’t keep the magical icing on the bright and shiny. it at all gets tarnished in the sun, the gleaming radiation. watch the rust form on that pretty toy. can’t be so much fun, the rustbot.