doremefasolatedo
his last thoughts were fevered for sure
do re me fa so late do! doughray! meso fahti dough. woomp it will, it will. flip you, flip you for real. She poisoned them for real you simpleton. And you’ll be dying real soon. Apply some reason, she’s a dolt, a real silly cow. Except in this case, you have eaten the poison while I, I have been afforded the luxury of deciding the fate of your stinking corpse. I think I will feed you to the Birds. now, if I can only figure out how to make this silly thing contract, make the whole thing contract, give me uppercase punctuation,,:.;???
uppercase punctuation? why whatever for? then you would only have to give things proper names. and in naming things and giving them proper names you have to acknowledge their existence and in acknowledging their existence you have to give them the faith that they actually exist. such things are actually un-things. they do not exist. as ghosts do not stalk the halls of a resort snowbound colorado hotel in the middle of november. they do not track snow into and onto the runners in the grand foyer and thus, do not exist.
for something to exist, it first has to cause an irritation. much like a flea.
the only true reason that you acknowledge the existence of a flea is the very fact that it bites and stings you. once it causes your nerve center to pick up its stimuli and bring it back to you on world weary legs means it exists. otherwise, like small creatures of this world, they do not exist, for all intents and purposes.
It’s like remedial vibraphone or suckling at the teat of human love. Can one really love? We can fix the objects with a glance, we can wish them away, we can make merriment in endless days of gladiator dreams waiting for Spartacus to strut his stuff and belligerently drag his cutlass like the dilapidated dreams of some wanton harlot on a dreary night in search of that all too pervasive warmth on the wharfs in the shadows of fog and gas lights in a cold November berth. The sea is the real topic that is as fleeting as the bank accounts of mega merger children living out their uninspired days of megalopolis mayonnaise fisher price bigwheel days. Go careening down the big sloap in a daze of pixie sticks from Rease’s Deli silly one. the days of the fatted calf and all the gin one can drink are over. On cruise ships to far off lands to postings care of her majesty’s government you once suggested that we could truly be free. Now we are nothing more than sidewalk scriveners in search of self respect and a warm place that reminds us of our wanton mothers and their prideless cowering in that bed of hay. What now brown cows?
indeed, what now brown cows? stupid beasts, not even of burden, because they cannot even bear a burden. except a burden possibly of shame. but not even then. poor stupid lazy beasts chewing on their cud. was there perhaps a sudden burst of inspiration there somewhere? a thoughtless remembrance? a chewing over of old thoughts? who knew what went on in the mind of cows? or of anything that happened on an old farm house?
I tried to fathom the absolute by hiding in the thistle, saddling up to the ice crystals there, the snot freezing to my beard. It had been a long time in the making, this frozen demise, this frost bitten dementia-by-the-field in or near the homestead of my youth. The old stone wall has come undone now and the house is empty, and I lay hear dying.
As Faulkner had said once and then he was talking about a woman dying in the back of a horse drawn wagon being taken god knows where? to the undertakers? to the great beyond? was that where we were now going? the room may have moved just then, unsettled on its hinges it seemed to spin ever the slightest on a single pivot point. just as the world swirled once beneath my feet when i danced, but who can remember any of that now? what good is remembrance when you have only the here and now and the hereafter?
It’s like my old man use to say when he would clean the oily grains from under his claws, “Like this buckknife here, life can be sharp, but only as useful a thing as the man who uses it.” The old man thought he was a pariah Will Rogers too if anyone ever bothered listening to his prattle. he killed the family dog here by this old wall the day my brother ran away. He could manipulate people as well as that buckknife. Under his finger nail or in the dog’s throat it seems to be the same thing, a botched up and belligerently languid activity, that all seems meaningless.
do re me fa so late do! doughray! meso fahti dough. woomp it will, it will. flip you, flip you for real. She poisoned them for real you simpleton. And you’ll be dying real soon. Apply some reason, she’s a dolt, a real silly cow. Except in this case, you have eaten the poison while I, I have been afforded the luxury of deciding the fate of your stinking corpse. I think I will feed you to the Birds. now, if I can only figure out how to make this silly thing contract, make the whole thing contract, give me uppercase punctuation,,:.;???
uppercase punctuation? why whatever for? then you would only have to give things proper names. and in naming things and giving them proper names you have to acknowledge their existence and in acknowledging their existence you have to give them the faith that they actually exist. such things are actually un-things. they do not exist. as ghosts do not stalk the halls of a resort snowbound colorado hotel in the middle of november. they do not track snow into and onto the runners in the grand foyer and thus, do not exist.
for something to exist, it first has to cause an irritation. much like a flea.
the only true reason that you acknowledge the existence of a flea is the very fact that it bites and stings you. once it causes your nerve center to pick up its stimuli and bring it back to you on world weary legs means it exists. otherwise, like small creatures of this world, they do not exist, for all intents and purposes.
It’s like remedial vibraphone or suckling at the teat of human love. Can one really love? We can fix the objects with a glance, we can wish them away, we can make merriment in endless days of gladiator dreams waiting for Spartacus to strut his stuff and belligerently drag his cutlass like the dilapidated dreams of some wanton harlot on a dreary night in search of that all too pervasive warmth on the wharfs in the shadows of fog and gas lights in a cold November berth. The sea is the real topic that is as fleeting as the bank accounts of mega merger children living out their uninspired days of megalopolis mayonnaise fisher price bigwheel days. Go careening down the big sloap in a daze of pixie sticks from Rease’s Deli silly one. the days of the fatted calf and all the gin one can drink are over. On cruise ships to far off lands to postings care of her majesty’s government you once suggested that we could truly be free. Now we are nothing more than sidewalk scriveners in search of self respect and a warm place that reminds us of our wanton mothers and their prideless cowering in that bed of hay. What now brown cows?
indeed, what now brown cows? stupid beasts, not even of burden, because they cannot even bear a burden. except a burden possibly of shame. but not even then. poor stupid lazy beasts chewing on their cud. was there perhaps a sudden burst of inspiration there somewhere? a thoughtless remembrance? a chewing over of old thoughts? who knew what went on in the mind of cows? or of anything that happened on an old farm house?
I tried to fathom the absolute by hiding in the thistle, saddling up to the ice crystals there, the snot freezing to my beard. It had been a long time in the making, this frozen demise, this frost bitten dementia-by-the-field in or near the homestead of my youth. The old stone wall has come undone now and the house is empty, and I lay hear dying.
As Faulkner had said once and then he was talking about a woman dying in the back of a horse drawn wagon being taken god knows where? to the undertakers? to the great beyond? was that where we were now going? the room may have moved just then, unsettled on its hinges it seemed to spin ever the slightest on a single pivot point. just as the world swirled once beneath my feet when i danced, but who can remember any of that now? what good is remembrance when you have only the here and now and the hereafter?
It’s like my old man use to say when he would clean the oily grains from under his claws, “Like this buckknife here, life can be sharp, but only as useful a thing as the man who uses it.” The old man thought he was a pariah Will Rogers too if anyone ever bothered listening to his prattle. he killed the family dog here by this old wall the day my brother ran away. He could manipulate people as well as that buckknife. Under his finger nail or in the dog’s throat it seems to be the same thing, a botched up and belligerently languid activity, that all seems meaningless.
posted by BrenGun at 9:56 AM
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