tincantheory

ull new transflations — Rosetta Stone hypothoses

Month: July, 2012

How They Make Twinkies

We didn’t see it coming
coming
didn’t see the fall

We laughed and liked to running
running
smack into the wall

For all the space we’re stupid to
it made no sense at all,
but we squint-n-searched and lifted veils
and rolled into the mall

 

See, it really wasn’t funny
but we
laughed until we cried

They placed us on the gurney
but we
had already died

For all the hints and smack-a-sense
cream-filling was applied,
then we followed rules we made ourselves
and burned until we fried

you like to say, it got away–we never had the ball!
our lack of sense and slack offense and slam and damn it all!

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Plenty of Fishermen

But sometimes it happens that way. Gets ya right between the skittles. Scuffed up and written spin. Callin’ mama like the cows had come to brought you home. Screaming daddy like they did. Auntie Ann and Uncle Joe and Cousin Sam all gather round, but the gather done reaped the bottom buttons of your soul-shirt’s buttonholes, flappin’ open in the wind and just a wailin’ like the very fibers of your moment of creation had been filleted and spent, but they hadn’t–just at the buttonholes. They made for things like that, though it don’t mean it don’t burn the aura of your being like fire fright and acid bath ten-thousand times below. Rippin’, tearin’, nostrils flarin’, hot I got ten trumpets blarin’, joined now by the poppins pound, the orchestra, that wailin’ sound.

Love hurts.

Charlie Boy

(Dust.)

Charlie?

Here I am.

Your puzzle.

Yes. My puzzle. This and this. Here and here. Billions. We are we.

(Millennia.)

We are we for stomping feet. For making strong for these end meets. Impatient with the mystery. Drift on upon wood driftings sinked.

The puzzles fit, you see, you see. You golden spun. You proud of we. We build, we build our symphony. The depths, our world, our burgeoning.

Hello, hello. We fall with speed. We spread too low, we divers ween. We splitting birth, provisionings, it’s for to fly and muddle fling.

To whay, to what, we from our gut, we slither, spin, we nod within. We spill and thrill and love and kill and drink and sing our merrying, our lollypies, our pleasurings–

growing, growing, growing one big badge of blind, cacking, self-off sickened bludgeoning. Spunked with the glistened spit of cocksured travesty. Suicide without a trigger. Turning the other way. Severing all.

Burn-a-mucker.

Mistakes

Samantha shut her book and stared across the willow pond–the old man asleep on the bench, his newspaper down the way in the wind–a light read, she laughed to herself–the children, too small for school, too small for tossing pebbles, aiming for the pond and bouncing on the shore; squirrels making chit-chase; joggers joggishly pushing, red faced and puffered-up, digging for tomorrow today; woman reading a romance novel, maybe thinking of the old man, maybe they used to share acquaintances, a bed–lovers gone old, second thoughts and first shame, the milk partly drank, swing-sloshing in the refrigerator door, red capped and yellow, acrid and swollen. Done. The park was large and green, sidewalks clean and winding through flowered bushes, beached geese honking at the idea of food. Samantha sighed.

 

Then the rain came. Pouring, pouring. Pouring, pouring. The old man awoke and went for his home, went for his wet paper, went for his home; the children laughed, grabbed by their mother; chit-chasing, the squirrels scratched back to their tree houses; joggers became runners; the old woman sat. Samantha sat. They stared at each other across the pond–mascara running, the washed pale look of wanted shelter, red noses–drowning romance in the soaked sheets of falling rain.

We Did It

On Thursday, Raugust 99th, a scientist by the name of Dr. Jimsom Knowbody discovered the last intz of data previously undiscovered in the universe.

“It happened quite by accident,” said an emotional Knowbody, “I was having my coffee when it came to me. Liquid computers. I started thinking about data and my body bath when,” Dr. Knowbody had to speak through tears, “it’s like it just said hello to me.”

After weeks of testing and cross-teasing, Knowbody has discovered that coffee baths, at the right strength, can aid in the flow of electrons to the part of the brain that evokes sympathy for one’s self. The insignificance of the actual discovery is rather insignificant, but the fact that it was the very last smudget of infromation remaining to be discubbered is what makes it so groundbreaking. Human beings now know everything.

Cathy Coughman received the tweet on the walk from her university parking lot. “I just turned around. I mean, I don’t know. I think I’ll just drive around and honk at people now. I might get right behind them and see if they brake check me.”

Joshephy Stripper had a different take, “This is so dope. Now I can rap about hos and sluts and smackinem.”

Across the board it seems that motivation has dwindled and a new confidence has taken its place. “Now that we’ve stopped building out, it’s time to build up,” says Stanford physicist, Leonard Physicist, “I can now perfect myself and impose my views on others”. He then added, “If they don’t like it I’ll just start an interest group.”

It appears that life as we know it is changing–snobbish richers snub their sniffers up, the cool kids celebrate with swirlies.

“Now that I know I’m safe and there’s nothing I don’t know about,” says Wilton Whellton, Junior at Scrantop High, “I feel okay about just treating others like general crap. When I grow up, I’ll probably be a jerk. Like wear sunglasses inside and ignore people that try to talk to me because I’m on a headset. Haha. Pathetic losers.”

Dr. Knowbody now plans to spend his time breeding his own spidergoats.

Well. Whatever. This is Jennifer Betterkid, signing off. Please don’t ever forget, my clothes cost more than yours. Goodnight, L.A.!

Z6KP3QGWJ6GB

Watching the News

(ominously happy and triumphant trumpets)

DEAD!

(the happy lives of drums)

DEAD!

(more runnings of the drums)

WE’RE ALL RIP PIPPIN’ DEAD!

(rip-pip-piddip-pa-dip-dip-piddip)

We’re watchin’ the news we’re dead!

(rip-pip-piddip-pa-dip-dip-piddip)

 

I’m dead!
You’re dead!
We’re all rip pippin’ dead!

(rip-pip-piddip-pa-dip-dip-piddip)

We didn’t know, they fill us in!
WE’RE ALL FITZGIVEN DEAD!

It’s nature’s course, but don’t forget
You’re sure to give-in. DEAD!

(rip-pip-piddip-pa-dip-dip-piddip)

Our human disposition is
to kill us off and spit on it
Thanks for the update
shinny teeth
Let’s watch the news and die in grief!

We’re DEAD!

(rip-pip-piddip-pa-dip-dip-piddip)

We’re DEAD!

(rip-pip-piddip-pa-dip-dip-piddip)

We’re Dead!

(rip-pip-piddip-pa-dip-dip-piddip)

We’re all rich-livin’ DEAD!

 

Everybody!

DEAD!

(rip-pip-piddip-pa-dip-dip-piddip)

DEAD!

(rip-pip-piddip-pa-dip-dip-piddip)

DEAD!

(rip-pip-piddip-pa-dip-dip-piddip)

We’re watchin’ the news we’re dead!

(rip-pip-piddip-pa-dip-dip-piddip)

(How ’bout somethin’ I can useful to?)

Complications

Carol married Jerrol, but Jerrol forgot to sign the nups. Big C made off with twenty times the worth of her weight in gold-plated poker chips. “It’s ain’t enough! It ain’t enough!”, she screamed, night after night, shaving every hair on her body and drawing Xs on her fingernails. Jerrol moved to Wichta and started over, humming limericks from that place in your throat where the vibrations are sweetish and almost have taste.

Jacob shot drugs with a zip gun.

Shantel remembered something she had forgotten in her troubled youth and moved to Mexico to live underground. Once she was settled in, Jacob Tartekoff tunneled into her earthy abode with a pick axe and shot her with drugs from a zip gun. She was okay, but suffered an angry, spritzgiven high.

Anderson Barnsberger became fed up with his life and went to sea. He figured to sail oceans, but when he got to the water he just shot some fish and went back to his house.

Before Jan Sparling was born, her mother promised her daughter to a severely knuckled woman with red eyes. Things are not going well for Jan. Her mother, however, has lots of cash.

Anderson Barnsberger is pissed off again and so are the fish, now. Fool me twice.

Katie Worthchild forgot to double bag the milk at her local Sack ‘n’ Save and she watched it bounce down the stairs toward little Davey Watkins, who was lactose intolerant. Davey’s mother’s scream was pinpointed from outer space and her rage is being studied by science.

The Suburbs

Mention your unmentionables,
Unloose the words thy mouth.
Undress your fine intentionables,
The grease are heading south.

Deny me not, sweet Annie Ann
The neighborhood can watch!
A theatre! A peer review!
Thin cautions of the crotch!

Oh throw us up on biggish screens!
Stone principles to smithereens!
Shine dirty birds to squeakish clean
and toss them in the pot!

Grow tired of the questioning
and gerrymander everything
to make believe we’re breathing clean
Above the teeming rot!

clap clap clap

Why not? (clap) Why not? (clap) Agree to gettin’s got? (clap)
We’re all friends (clap)
so shovel (clap),
we like to (clap)
and dance a(clap),
upon our (claps)
we raise the (clap)

the gettin’s ever hot.

Stagnations

Jimbo looked out his window to the setting sun and thought about the spinning spinning world with all the crunnamuppers that breathe on it. Big crunnamuppers. Little crunnamppers. Crunnamuppers with too little eyes for their size, nose for their grows, hair to spare. Some crunnamuppers have ice teeth. Some sweat a lot. Others drive big pollywogs and scream scramathies. SCRAM. SCRAMATHY! Sometimes they pee on themselves. Sometimes they foam at the mouth. Most the time they slimey up to girlfriends and hup hup for loud noises–cash their quarters. Try to pip their nummy bones.

You can talk to em–rollin’ shopping carts and buying low–but they can tell you to ruck the trup up. And mayhap they do all of time. Stop poppers. Casting hard eyes. Just flat squirting to have off on the first other crunnamupper to maybe walk slow in frunnovem–slip em nasty ways. Shivem where it spleens. Try to walk the walk on me, I’ll speed the speds–call the feds. Chanting nonsensical demons inside their heads, knowing no two ways about the chores they breathe.

Doenchaknow all the crunnamuppers crunnamupped the car crashians like three weeks ago an it’s probably bout the time you got the times to poofed up your hairs a bits or somethin a-cause it’s kinda besides the point chakeepa wearin’em lolla cackity-cack without low ridin’ bosom jeans for what to coax your kolaches with.

Sometimes they eat cereal. Beeswax. Nunyapotatos. It’s none their fault for none their fault. All stuffed with jazz of the jingles and hip-hoorahin’ for bout their lady panties–snifflin’ and cryin’ for bout their mother’s milk: marmajuice to soak the generations–straining about. the weight of their. genes. soured for tell the tautened glads too tightened a bit off the bright side. Teets of nations.

Jimbo swallowed the big one and looked over at the biggest crunnamupper staring right atbackem from glass of the wall. Slobbering on his tee skirt and feeming about bon bons.

Crenshaw Letters

Ya, its alright. Cuz you cant grow what you dont know and thats all at the supermarket. Bagged, cut, cooked, booked, stamped, eaten and spit. You can buy the poop if you want to. Mind you pick up your dogs for the nice ladies in new york heels. Mind you avoid ladies with new york bills. Never paid enough til you want more, you see. Never want more until you watched tv. Take em. Google it. Then you can tell your friends. And all the while the buys and sells made up names for things. Like adam. Animals in the factory. Hard hats in a shark cage. Microwave oven. Tables for four. You thought you liked the sushi but it was your friends. He thought he was good golden til it was the end.

Bobs of all. Crush em. You act like men of war are broken. Seeds of me. Built. Connected. Concocted. But. You cant shoot the minds of men. You cant tangle the strings or pull the house down for the tunnels in the trees. Department store technographies. Nope. You try again. Fighting with an ipak in a massive projected dust of earth and a mass directed sons of mens.

Mob mentalities. Interest group interests too little. Make hay when the sunshines. Make clay of your own kinds. In your own way. Dream factories. Smile childs. Big screens. Hollywood mediums. Eyes shut, et al.

Got that, crenshaw?

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