tincantheory

ull new transflations — Rosetta Stone hypothoses

Month: September, 2012

Abusing Amusings

The air was crisp, heavy. It was morning and the dew would stick around. Balmy. The overhead clouds would not dissipate, would not let things progress. Stalwart. Giant hulks of ships eclipsing the natural progression of a normal and bliss filled day.

“Bullocks,” Stephen said. But he sat down anyway.

Bullocks,” and he got back up, hand swiped the water in quick sprays, the less to soak in his pants. It was a park and it was lusciously green and fulfilling. The bugs were there and some were still making noises and that was just fine, and the birds were there and some had begun making noises and that was just fine. The day would gently pulse and then sleep, without climax and without extension. The sun would miss its daily episode of us–foggy signal and sulky spirits–but he could tomorrow prop his big burnings on the coffee stove and flip on the tuberooski. Wonder who’s carcrashed today? Flew the news. Dead done. Celebrity celebrated.

Stephen sniffed.

“Ahhh.”

And the sun cracked one, loosened its load, and slept in front of a big, blank screen.

It is all not alright. It is all not alright, but we move like it’s somehow preset to be–like the air smells of popcorn and the sky is laughing, yawning his arm around his girl and wishing, secretly, that he could be like us.

Special.

Serve That Meat Up

When we all.

When we all alight the world the love that

lights and everything

Scenarios

Breathed, dreamed

Skies that never end

Heart

Lies that never told

A promise lighter than air, whisper for the ear, blowing in the glow time

Hope, words, stomach–

She opened up the world.

But she forgot to close it, and there it’s by the throat, and where once lit curious innocence smokes a now roar–the unabashed orgasms of a monster bloated on the roadside. Alive on the inside. Our youth. Thousands of them. Fat and heaped and horrid.

And we dance dance dance like we what what what. To the front front front then our butt butt butt.

And we never, ever shut up and listen.

And our eyes glazed. Marbles wanting for connection.

Back that beat up.

Serve that meat up.

Grey Sweet Mother

The gulls were calling. Marcus sat on a salted bench just out of waves reach and loosened to them slap and suck the pebbled sand, foaming there near his feet like whispered homages to the moon, silent signals of a kind obedience, quiet commands like clockwork, each element running on an earthen instinct–hatch to the ocean and mind the birds–that is never to be discovered. Simply is. And is is…spuff.

Marcus had fallen asleep, closing mind to his grey sweet mother, breathing in a cool comfort on the bench, on the sand like a speck of it. He was unshaven and he was there on the surface, asking not and wanting nothing but the flesh of something. He had his toes and he had his job and he could sleep, because he felt that tomorrow he would have his toes and have his job. He could sit on sofa and he could listen to music. He could baste in human achievement. He could wash his hair and wipe his bum with it. He could watch sex on tv and cool and dress like them with it. He could forget everything but whatever, and he could dive deep into it. Missing.

And as he dreamed, the colors–red, gold, orange, pink–marched off into the sea, fizzing like fires, not seen and never felt, passed through with smallish regard and smaller desire for question, for openness. We walk, talk–we build our disbelief, disproving with fragments, figurings–open your mind to close the windows, emotion unfit for equation, strong opinion shouted through eyelids, variables in the closet still never known.

And we dream, prostrate, writing formulas into the sand, notching nothings, half-listening to mumbled rumblings, background noise. We wait, mothered and prodigal, to return. Adorned and shinny, sinking like tiny ships catching the last glimmers of the sun through first feet of water, sparkling like silver fish and giving to the murk uncontested. Clockwork.

And the world breathes around us.

Conspiracy.

And the gulls are calling again.

Passing Time

It was like a dream on steroids, and roller skates. Like I could touch everything from here to there without leaving my lazy boy, without having to incline my torso. Everything on ball bearings. It was like 15 questions answered under the skin. Gooseberries and pumple bumps and men with clip boards and scarfs around their necks measuring each raised hair and the depth of my deer-in-headlights (11.2 lumens) and my guffaw factor (initial gasp x length of silence / number of vocal sputterings + magnitude of facial cramping (plus one and/or two modifier for any bladder or bowel relief–involuntary)) (157.96 mms).

And then I expired out the head. Where time was less like the melting of ice cream cones and more like a banana waiting to be peeled.

 

Silly, silly rabbits. Trix aren’t even for kids. They’re for spacemen. I am what I was. Peeled. My time–flat, open, excused. Vapor–poof–inhaled through the lungs of my children. Exhalations. A flat hand extended. I dribble dew like condensation on the glassed wall of the Creator peeping through. His eyes like my mistakes and heartache.

 

Then they put me at this desk and I type I type I type I type I type.

Reason Injects with Venom and Eats Self

We didn’t like the ruling,

So we did it all our own.

We traded off our sturdibles

For sex and Toblerones.

We poke our ragged banners in

Our mountains to atone,

Flip on the ol’ Carcrashians,

And never feel alone.

 

We whiten all our teeth but we

For never brush and floss–

“Wait wait wait wait

You’re not to speak that way to me

I’m Adam, I’m the boss.

With all my range of movement

I’m not sure where you get off.

I sell you all the best of things

At well below the cost:

You see here all my snowledges

Spit shined in semigloss?”

 

Oh, Adam, all your snowledges

Are splatters on the stall

The size of mere bacterium

Yay microscopic tall.

“I do not care–you’ve seen my wares–

I’m Adam of them All!

If you like not my precious things

Then get out of my mall!”

 

We all, we all shall leave your mall

In bad health and good time–

In best of shape, if we should leave

Without spending a dime.

Confidence at Mealtime

So well at holding noses closed

And scraping off our feet.

A stink mistook for roses

In the places that we eat:

Breakfast, lunch, and dinner served

Out from our other end–

We smile wide–it’s well deserved!–

To eat our meals again.

 

Oh, lend us here your mirror, please,

There’s something in our teeth.

It’s coming ever clearer–fear

That’s yestermeat bequeathed.

Jimbo Go

He walked along the Harbor Pond–the wind, the worldblown.

–JIMBO!

–Aww, maww!

–Suppertime.

He scrupped along the suppertime, forking mash, green beans, squash, beef steak–all the while thinking of the dancing leaves, the hoppin’ frogs, the air that sniff-so pleased him.

–Maww, may I excuse?

–You may not. Dishes don’t dry themselves, boy. It was his father.

Together they arose from the table. Maww, Paww, and Jimbo. Wash, rinse, dry. In that order. In that way.

scrammin

–What boy? Paww said.

–Nuthin’.

Maww washed. Paww rinsed. Jimbo Dried.

–Needin’ us a scraper, Maww said, her side of the sink fulled of suds and bits of soggy squash. They had been without one since ChristaBawn left them for the mailman. She was married to the mailman. In a way it was the natural course a things, but it wasn’t the Grambly course a things.

–Almost still had one. Almost had a linter, too, Paww said.

–We ain’t needin’ any linter. Maww said. Plain crazy. We needin’ a grease pan gritter.

Paww wanted the mailman to lint roll the dinnerware after Jimbo was done with the dryin’. Maww wanted the mailman to grit the grease pans. In the end, Maww would a got the way and Paww would jibjaw about it ’til no one cared no more, ‘specially himself, and life went on. Wherever it went. Drainholes. Outofspace.

ChristaBawn had run to the nearest citytown. Winsbarn. It was none but a hour’s walk from the Gimbly’s but it was forbidden to go. None of them went much outside the home, the field.

None ‘cept ChristaBawn–Jimbo now.

The letters would come to him alone. They would sit in his hideout. His place by the brook. They sat in the nook of a tree where they would dry from the rain if it runned–it didn’t. He found them for the first time–two a ‘casue he hadn’t been down there for some days. ChristaBawn left them. Folded up sheets of papers neat and in emvelopes from the mailman. They was crisp like teacher paper.

He’d wondered if they was left by the mailman, that bein’ a part a his job. They were her writin’, and they smelled like her. She was somethin’–ChristaBawn livin’ in Winsbarn with this mailman. She says his name is Jackie and they have a baby on the way on account a her bein’ pregnant. Jimbo remembered how warm he got when he read that part.

–Near time, next year, yourn marriage time.

–I don’t know no girls.

–Elma.

–Elma’s my cousin.

–And she’s purty, said Paww.

Jimbo wrote her back. About the wind and frogs and how theys doin’. About Maww and Paww, how the drain gets clogged ‘count a her bein’ gone. ‘Bout how they wouldn’t let him out save for the feed store, an’ how he’d started drawin’ the stars, but how it took up so much pencil. ‘Specially on real dark nights. Then he started going into Winsbarn. Then he met Marcy Ann. She was purty.

He would think back to the last letter ChristaBawn sent him. He would think about it often. Fact is, he carried it in the brim of his hat, tucked right in there.

Jimbo, she said you is the wind.

Maww and Paww were great and one day they would be in Winsbarn. At least somesthetime. They don’t talk to ChristaBawn. Jimbo supposed now they wouldn’t talk to him, neither. Well. Understand man’s gotta run the farm, but man’s gotta be a man, too. Understand that dishes got to dry, but Marcy Ann not ready for marriage. Her father’s not. Gots to get a real job. Makin’ money ‘stead a corn. ‘Stead a dish lint.

Until something gives. Maww and Paww will be there, right beside Harbor Pond, clogged sink and soggy dishes after mealtime.

Right Outside the Follywood

When you thought for sure you were you wore the watcher’s eye.

We didn’t.

When did we believe our words were writing on the sky–

Flat.

When the world a stops the twirl because you go and die,

We all for tears and broken there the groundings where you lie.

Splits.

Fitzgibbon.

Mirror tell the sorry tale of where you’re gone to lie

And the special skin of harlequin goes yellow in the rye

 

Scraps.

 

Cabbage Patch 2012

The air was smoked. The band was loud. The frat house dudes were fraternizing with nipple jokes and the ancient art of air-humping, sodomizing that which is breathed, and kneading the nothing, pantomiming that which is heaved. The place was packed and it was loose–just-so hair gel cacawing to the mousse. There were pert spectacles of human bodies and purposeful grindings behindings of them. Sturdiful, protrusing proposings of them.

Will you bury me?

Lyle sat with his beer in the crook of a nook booth with his friends, looking through the noise, trying not to become pregnant. Thinking about investations in condom hats.

I can’t breathe!

Thomas and Samantha sat across. They had drinks and they had effervescent views of the world, the bar, their movements within and through it. They breathed freely–riding the bubbles of soured champagne, screwing each other through scuba material.

Corpus Annonymous.

His beer was light, was something of the old thing, something perpetuating the same train–product to people, monies between, cha-chinging from vine to vine on tree to tree–a primate scream: Scoo-Scoot AAAAHH! AAAAHH! It was someone he knew. It was Vidalia. Vidalia of the Boozenflites, kissing Lyle of Cheekovface, grasping hand to hand, fingers on fingers, smiling brightly, surprisingly. The whore of some morrow today.

Sca-BOOOM-mama-nama!

It was hot. It was burning hot, and Lyle, unable to freely breathe, asked this woman, this person of past acquaintance, if she would please, ever so mind, removsing herself from the beside of his seated bump-post. He felt cornered, caught in a crook nook, perspiring insatiably and screaming on the soulside. He felt the need to move. Besides, the streamed persistence of a certain  inner organ would not permit his loungings a moment longer, and he was now inclined to obey its pinched impressings.

Hush-n-flush.

He climbed the ladder, felt the rush of cool up there. He had to pee, and, urinals used in full, opted for outside air. He had a notion, a noble thought, and he lay down with his pants off and begain urinating up and on himself.

“Towards thee I roll, thou all-destroying but unconquering whale; to the last I grapple with thee; from hell’s heart I stab at thee; for hate’s sake I spit my last breath at thee!”

And that, my friend, is where babies come from.

Ballgame Snack Attack

Crick back my Jacker Cracks

My snacker snacks

My caramel plaques.

 

Sing song my peanut gong

No popcorn wrong

My box all gone.

 

Where where my sailor man

his doggie friend

Concession stand.

 

Play ball, the baseball call

The standup all

The crowd entrall!

 

Cha, cha, cha-cha-cha!

 

 

 

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