ull new transflations — Rosetta Stone hypothoses

Month: December, 2012

Literal Translations of Tomorrow Nimcompoop Derived of Today Nimcomfreebirds (or Fake it ‘Til you Take it)

Where did you go?

We swept the streets a Nickleberg, spottin’ dimes, rubbin elbows and misconductin’ the pantomimes.


What did you do?

Somethin’. And sometime we did to ain’t. Paradox reslumber. Something inherent in nothing. Something like dust.


For when did you what for?

Three dollars. It didn’t really matter whose hand had the rubberdup. Iron grip. Velco and a panic attack. Always two steps away from rubbin’ under.


From whence did hence?

Baltimore, Boston, Burlington, Boxville, Biscuitcar, Bip. They came from all over. Blixbeeburg. But funny–and you never heard this from me–they never, not even just once, bummed their bumpers on broadway. Digestives too soak too long. Drink your cookie slop and coffee kiss.


And wouldya ‘gain?

What day is it?



No. Check no.



Which one?





Would car you could car you?

In little land of hammie can, little Libble scribble scribble. Little Tibble nibble nibble. And big, big Boturb soap and buckurb. In fifth of February I would lay the nap. Hope in sap. And bees.


If forty to thirty.

I would run the other way twice, do it again, then bloody beg my knees to do it the exact same only backward then. Give ‘er a good rub, I would. I would jip jap three Saturdays (thrice on the third) and every other Thursday of every quarter month.



Because if I am the king, then I bee the sting. Tell me. You catchin’ my direction? Am I tossin’ whatchafetchin’? Neosporin is bad, bad, bad for the breeze.


Pros and cons of sex men on sex women (three afternoons and sideways).

You bob it off it twists the same. Never ever. Wind up wrongsides. Flippant Shelly like harps amid the cold wind. Jilly Jilly. Time. You multiply the horny by irrelevance and see what kind of numbers you come up with. Never heard such muck. Kick ’em while their down and hug straight have ’em off again. Sure. But whose biscuits are you burnin? Look in the mirror. Spurn yourself.


Where does it all go and what is it all for?



Butzerbakker the Calendar Maker

Butzerbakker the Calendar Maker hard at this work in his Mayan studio apartment. Tireless. He built them. Square upon square.

Thirty days hath September. April, June, Nov…

He lined them up. He conquered them.

“Butzerbakker,” they told him, “you are a hard worker. If you finish the entire calendar now, all the Mayans will never have to worry about the calendar later.”

“That,” said Butzerbakker, “is a noble idea.” And so he got to work. “This will be my crowning achievement. Every day I will fill with days until my final square has come.”

They were tiny, these squares, but they consumed his life, these four corners, sides, all the same degree and all the same length–painstaking precision. And what’s more, he had to find the photos–moose, castles of Scotland, kittens, swim suit models (do not tell his mamaka, but this latter was his greatest and sometimes sole pleasure–Oh, Butzerbaker, you were so diligent in your work!), and then there were bank holidays, moon phases. Butzerbakker. The Calendar Maker, a living track of time, grew old in his work.

Near two-thousand years without so much as even the smallest of formal respite. The 1950’s went by as fast and smooth as ever (if not the so slightest misalignment of months and picture discrepancies–a group of marbles in the dust, two of the same Scottish castles in the same year, his mamaka baking breakfast in her morning gown), but then he grew ill. He was an old man and his tireless work had dragged for ages.

“Mamaka,” he said, “my eyes are tired and my fingers cramp once a month.” He gripped his gnarly knucklers. “Not real months, Mamaka, these calendar months. I cannot bear it.”

Mamaka, the wife that she was, may her memory live on in ever, kissed Butzerbakker on his furrowed brow, dried and caked in the salt of his work, and said, “My Papappa King, your calendars are godswork. People from afar come to see your exactitude, your moose. You have charted times probably that even our ancestors shall never see,” she stroke-backed his hair, “you should rest.”

The room spun–BUTZA! BUTZA! Calendar squares drip-dripping-droppo, dripper-pipper-poppo. Happy New Year. Kippy Kwanza. Boxing Day. Merry Easter. Butzer, oh so exact, oh so squarefully persistent–the Moose, Butzer, so masculine, so much the nature and so less the office space. You bring the outdoors in, Butzer. The work of the champions. Oh and your JUNES! My days, Butzerbakker, are more marvellous because of your ever-splendicious exactitude. You are the creme-de-la-weekdays. You are my nights, Butza! One through thirty-one! Thirty-one to infinity!

Capital work, Butza. Capital work.


And the room was like a top, like the birthday party wood toys–weee-weee!–like the dancing girls of Caracol–mee-mee! And it settled like an avalanche heft heaped on the bosom of the mighty Mayan calendar man–he he.


“My son.” It was Butzerbakker. Charlie, the Calendar Prince. Progeny of one. Deathbed. My only heir! Weeping.

“Carry on my work, Charlie,” said Butzerbakker, muttering past the death so decided in choking him. “You are young. Seize the day, my son. All of them.”

And his eyes were closed in sleep.



Charlie sat in his room the whole night. What Butzerbakker didn’t know is that Charlie had dreams of his own. He was a dancer. The measured repetition of calendar work was not the the sort of outlet that would full-grasp appease him. The stars had called his body to move and the wind had bid him listen. He was gone.


The town was in an uproar–Charlie’s curtains billow-blowing in the breeze. And then Muminba spoke.

“No worry. We have thousands of years and millions of calendars,” he said. “Let us dance, too,”

And they did.

Moonlight for Malcom

And the moon will walk on sideways. Ever the siddler. Ever the stalker of night. A brand of owlish keen, wink-eyed and knowing. Illumined. Prophesying in frequencies and languages amissed. Night whispered. Muted. Vocal bored by noise and never care. Cack-cough sputterings of twitching things–asphyxeemees. A people squirmed and matted,  blue faced and medal bearing–understanding smattered in pockets of existence, strung together in hot confidence, a terrained practice of blind diligence and closed knowledge impartment, spreading like spitted mashed potato in a rob beheaded pantyhose. La la la la forever comfortable in ourselves and distant of an encompassing hand that holds the atmosphere, that trickles life.

Biscuit strife.

And then there’s mystery. There is unrestrained unknowing. All splayed and sleep-the-couch, the kettle blowing.  Cattle lowing. Crick backa cannattacka spill a missle toeing.

Cuz we believe in big, big mass of must. In bang we trust. Spontaneous assumption. Like sparks with minds and endgames of their own. Nothing to combat the evil here. Cuz we believe. Cuz we believe in hot, hot cosmic dust. Just–

lee lee lee lee lee lee lee lee lee lee we believe. and lee lee lee lee lee lee lee lee lee lee lee we believe.


And we are the missing link. Pissing stink. Roll dead dover on the kissing brink. Come red rover to the mating rink.


Wipe the moon with one eye closed. And good goodnight. And good dispose.

“So, where do we go from here, Malcom?”

“I jump I jump I jump I jump I jump I jump I jump I jump!”

“Quite so.”

Asexual Romance

Carl and John sat at the edge of the reaching sea. The water was clearer here than the gulf John had been used to. He was Texas, and Texas was once a year–if you’re lucky–to the Padre where even Spring Break couldn’t tup the muck, what with all the beer and butt (college girl set hut hut!).

“How can you look up to the stars and ask for Joanie to love you when you don’t know the correlation–the why–the Joanie, the stars and purpose, and what keeps each going?”

“I don’t know, I guess it’s–”

“No, why don’t you ask the stars if they care? Why don’t you ask anyone if they care?”

“Who cares if they don’t?”

“Someone. And it ain’t you and it ain’t me, and there’s your answer right there.”

“Whose answer?”

“And for all care, Joanie can float right out to sea. Right out there to that sea.”

Carl was silent. Drank. Silent. Spoke–“fair enough.”

“Fair enough. And you’re right it’s fair enough. Because we sit and eat it and it’s always fair enough.”

“Eat what?”

“And let me tell you. It’s all cakes and pastry pies that bake in our oven, Carl. You try eating that for eighty years. Try to make the stars give a damn when you’re at your table. With your pee-can pie.”

John stood up from his lawn chair and “Uuhhff!” stomped his foot at the coming ocean, tasted the salt that splashed his lips. He wiped his glasses and sat back down. The air itself was salty, heavy with something peaked over the horizon but never shown, day or night–burning with the sun and cloaking its figure in that indistinguishable line that hints the world when lights are out and all is calm. “Right out to sea, Carl! And that’s one big, wave-bobbin’–oh wait for it…”–his arms waving–“wait for iiiiit…blip.”

“So you don’t like Joanie?”

“No,” John said, “I do like Joanie, but that’s something totally different.”

“The stars don’t like Joanie.”

“No, man. They just think you’re really, really lazy.”



“What the hell are you talking about?”


Coooophhhh. Wuuphhhhhcrrrrrshhh. Coooooophhhhshh.




“The shooter is deceased inside the building,” Connecticut State Police spokesman Lt. Paul Vance said at a news conference. “The public is not in danger.”



How can that be possible when we breed demons like maggot suckle

worm symposium

thonging on the rigor mortised clitoris of a

stinking and


acid wash

demon flies to bite the womb and

seeding seeding


human existence.


The Kardashians start at nine; you bring the ever-pucking popcorn.

There’s plenty room in hell.


Go muck on a bedpost and smear the walls.

Let’s make ourselves at home.


And everyone is to blame.



I Am Sir Willy Nillyton

I am Sir Willy Nillyton of Any Arbor Hills,

A great begated villagery of many dollar bills.

My dragon is the populace;

My steed a rolly chair!

I never dreamt it’d come to this,

But neither what nor where.


I am Sir Willy Nillyton, I ride a Cadillac.

And ever if I leant a buck, I’d ask two dollars back.

I run the golden heyday

In the field of ladies fair–

My sword of flesh’s sobriquet

Is None the Best for Wear.


I am Sir Willy Nillyton, my gracious wares accrue.

My spacious shelves can peer no else ets bet silea yew

That’s Latin, for your brain of hare–

I’m quite of gold, I know–

All the world’s a disrepair

and I’m a light aglow!


AIOLTFOALS (An Instantaneous Occurrence Like the Flipping of a Life Switch)


I am Sir Willy Nillyton, I want my money back!

I did quite die this death and now the ever’s awful black!

We miss the biggest picture

Per a self-tenacity.

I thought I had it figured, but

Was off,



You know…






“Not with that attitude,” he said, and dropped the hot dog, a skinny wiener rolling down the slope of dusty sidewalk they’d just walked up. He acted as if he’d go for it and stopped, then turn-puffed over and picked up the dirty meat, chucked it into the duck pond maybe thirty yards away. He stepped on the bread, picked it up, wadded it, and threw that too. It unraveled half-way and died there and after the ducks were done wondering what the hell kind of bread could smell so grease and homeless, they quack-quacked and made for the more traditional offering, Carl screaming at them as they waddled up.

“Ducks!” he said. “I am sick and tired of these ducks–these same ducks here every day–being fed and never, not ever, not once flapping up to me on a bench and quacking what at least in their language is a thank you. Not ever looking at you with those diseased dark eyes except to quack-quack-blah-blah-quack for something that may or may not be stuffed in your pockets.” He raised them his middle finger–“That’s what’s in my pockets!“–and pointed at Christine, the blonde within almost personal conversation distance, far enough to feign bystander status, to dodge the ketchup packet she knew was still on him somewhere. “You!” he said, and turned back to the ducks.

Hot dog! Manhood! That’s what’s in my pants! Take it! Because she can’t have it.” He walked over to her, who backed a few steps–flabbergasted, trying to look like she knew he was capable of hitting her, hoping for some dapper don to see some easy pickin’s. Carl shouted, “You! You can’t have it any more. The ducks have it. Just as greedy damned as you are, but they win because they’re too damn smart to want anything else. You want my dinner. My nine dollar salads! You scope me for my future!”

“I’m sorry, Carl,” she said.

“Well I don’t have anymore nine dollar salads”, he yelled. He bansheed. He spittle fumed. He dead duck omened and hot dog boomed.

“DUCKS!” he yelled. “SLUTS! You and I, Christine! You and I!”

He took off his shirt. Threw it at them. It didn’t make it either. He undid his belt. Slid his pants.

Carl,” urged Christine, a growling burst, quick and meant to sound like attempted undertone–muffled and discreet–though it was desperately groping for eyes, the perception and label of sanity.

Carl went for his shoes in ankled pants. One and then the other, they sailed toward the water–splashed, rippling, duckless.


He marched down to the water, stomping and pomping, slid down his underwear and plunked into the coolness of the pond, yelling and quacking, his hands in his armpits, flapping.

“Quack you, Christine!” he yelled. “Where’s my quackin’ hot dog!”

Carl was her ride, but Christine, bright red and sullen shocked, walked away–head down, fast.

The day was calm and clear, the breeze blowing slightly in. On her way she passed some authority rushing toward the pond.

She was allergic to ducks.

Trying to Explain Ourselves to God After Just the Briefest Stint with an Uncompromising Death

You see…

The age of reasoning is death–
Warm and in the ground…
Help! Help! my paddy melt
Was claimed at lost and found!

Ship! Ship! Potato chip!
Just left and sailed away!
…You know we come from pumpkin seeds
Four missing links away…


I drink my broth
I’m cast me off
I’m piss to whet the clay!
I’m forty-five
and Number WHO
I’m sandwich bag away!

I scribble dibble
Mum mum mum mum mum mum mum mum



Plus the bloody gloves are too little.


Awfully Donkey

How’d we grow jackassinine–
The colder stones in bloom.
We’d lie and look em in the eyes
If not for choked perfume.

We ooooh eeeee ooooh
demise inside.
A bride is to her groom
As we are to the vapor wraith
So longs to nester womb.

We all we are
We hard under the moon.
We cockle strut
through winter but
We paint our lovers June.

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