ull new transflations — Rosetta Stone hypothoses

Month: January, 2013


They walk along the pier. The two of them. Hand outside of hand and mind with much of thought.

“Damnit, John.”

The gulls. The air–heavy and cold. The rotting wood–light and dying.

“The Children,” Alice says.

“Blight and crying.”

The sex. Yes. The everyday driving of motors. A herd with motive–how green the spleen.


He shrugs, “When in Rome.”

“You were never in Rome.”

He nods.

He brightens, “I was, uh–“, moves his hands so round and round, milling thought of air, “what do you call it–LUST! It was lust, Alice,” he says, “lustalice.”

Her glance is firm and sharply sideways, “You haven’t lustaliced in years, you dog.”

John Alfours, “Arf, Arf, Arf!

The airplanes. The white cloud. The blue curtain of sky (behind of which the eye).

“A girth of woman’s thigh!” he says. Pants–“heh-a-heh-a-heh-a-heh!”

Alice turns to sea and crosses her arms to grab the bottoms of her sweater, bares her breasts.

Richard at the moons, “Arooo! Ar-ar-aroooooo!”

She slaps him hard across his tongued face.

Dog!” she says.


They walk off the pier and turn to gaily skipping down the path. Hand outside of hand. Mind with much of thought.

John turns to her, “Of all the things, what do you think is your favorite?”

“Spoons,” she says.

They skips. John thinks.

“What a metallic answer,” he says.




Oblivion Remembered

I once saw cadaver dogs searching the back sides of my eyelids. They were highly trained, but pooped out the back end. They died when there was no life in them. They were buried.

Sometimes when I bow my head and pray to mankind, I can feel his limpnipotence emanating from the flesh of my tailbone and glowing out the top of my head. I usually break out into pop hymns about whores. I feel cool complacence in knowing everything and I high five the mirror because I will never die. Straight up, I am awesome and I buy cars to ride the tails of other awesomes that have broughtten their cars, but then I poop out my back end and when there is no life in me I die. I am buried.

It wasn’t that long ago that I felt very strongly about something and I felt others should feel the same strongly about that same something and picked up some boss ponies and front row hecklers to hold signs and bother people until they liked my signs. Then I pooped out of my back end and realized I should probably just start a website talking about the great big pluses of my plight–instead of being mean and feeling deep down inside like I was the best and better than even myself, who was crowned king dumpty of even everything in the sky and beyond it forever. Then they buried me when I died.

Last Saturday someone was  hip hip hip hip hip hip hip hip hip hip hip hip hip hip hip hip hipping me the wrong way–like in the tailbone or something–and when I awesomed his car at the red lights he mix emotioned me with poison and strawberries. I was like, “Meff you stingin’ sweetface. You don’t know mister blister. My shoes are not even six days old!” Then he just check check checked out my kicks and we’re like buds now when we poop out the back end, burying each other when we died.

Then I opened my eyes and

Freakin’ out because

Zombies on the parameter

and I’m praying to the mankind who

limpnipotence when

Britney Spears

Greasy teeth smiles and

Video surveillance caught

Slopping posterior when

Stored all these plethoras of data and knowledge and succumbed to

Superior closets

Diamonds and yelling at people and

Pointing shiny fingers like

Big silly anuses with tails

Hehawwing over frankfurters and

Ground complacency

And this great big world like

Zipped bowling bag and shoved in a closet

Minuscule dust fibers and

Fungus forgotten.

Death and bury

Ingesting like kings

But scat like squirming vermin

Walled and in between the choicest of dead things

But surely

Chance the answer

Stand askancer.


The water rushed. Carried him. Joe the water slide. The liquid luge. He did not wear his shirt anymore, like his elementary school pool days (such so delicate this button of bellyboy–his lifesecret) and his modesty ran behind him, shouting and waving flares down the tubeways (Iiiinoceeeence!). The great, orange circular tract bore him like medical wash, like expellent, his life shoot–injection spurring exit wounds, giving to get, good seed for a screaming, fresh-bloomed flowerbabe. Whooosh. A daylight to life. His feet first (doctor!). And Joe smiled in preparation of discharge (Earth to bathtowl, do you read me? Come in, bathtowel). And the slick, whipping whir of a way down now flushed with fresh air, a deep breath and the slapping sound of other fish–bubbled fizz spread bursting up. He twirled, open eyed and warble world. A calm, spin-glided flailing of new limbs in old water.

Joe resurfaces and Gina stands. Glistening. Marketing. Waiting–her modesty dead in a gutter somewhere (gavel bouncing–guilty!). She was a product of her livingroom, the brainchild prodigy of parental disconnect and cream-centered, cyclical music. Proud honor student of Disney channel teen suggestives and reality TV party girls that firebrand the slut ape straight there on his primal and sex-etched stomach. Siizzzzzzz-crckzzzzzlez.

And Gina ran ahead. Splashing and pulling bikini (Cerebrus) out the midst of her celebrated and vocal dichotomy (abandon all hope). The boy wanting, racing. Quite the scratch-post. Embraced. Hard up and rucking the rack sack for all the boys of come before and after.

As if he was only because he is and this moment made because it was.




Oh if

Whoreses, of course, it’s

a magical horse,

And my friend the deflorist

drops clams in the porridge


Hohhhh, my goodness, it’s



Annnnd theeeee

Blames gotta name

for a splunderful game

Drop your shame to proclaim

in the Hallest of Faaaaame!

Hohhhh, my lovely,


Paaaaass the Jello it’s


Piiiiss the yellow it’s



And her Skirt!

seven flirt!

Ohhhh the Devil COVERT!




OHHHHHH my goodness, it’s


Walllllk the doggie in


honnnnk your horny with


Guuuuzz the bubbly to





Excess and Laughter

And Timmer inquired: “Then please tell me sir–excuse me, sir–the proper etiquette for smultzing in the cabin’s boiler room.”

“You put it on your head!”

Excess and laughter.

Timmer’s face goes sour. Gets up. “You just right time. You just time, all of you. You’ll see! You’ll see old Timmer when the back door lies flat on ya skinknees. And the wholes all callin’ home ta fillin’ up yer daily karma starma with rancor rags at night. Spankerdoos. Scummo, skimmo, scumdub scrummo. Scrimma scumma yous.” He pointed his fingers with slight titilation, hip undulation, spook instigation. The witchcrafty move of ancient voodoo consternation.

“He turned us all to steam!”

Excess and laughter.

“I’m melting!”

Excess and laughter.

And Timmers, not quite yet ready to leave altogether, sat on the bench next to the beautiful lady statue and sulked into her stone-lace shoulder.

“Oh, Deliliah,” he said to himself and to her, “I’ve been cotton to an earthen tone, cuddle to a girly stone. Oh Delilah. My face is done with anguish and you are my only lonely throw-a-bone.”

Excess and laughter.

“Juhhhhhst look at em!”


And they took their liberties, each after the other in each their own turn. The peach of children spurned. Both adult and much unlearned. They put on their show:

Harry the Attorney honked his red-light horn the instant of green–Murp! Murp! “Go, you smelly schmucks! Two seconds to fecund me a hollllllla hatin’ rage!”


Jacob the Ballerina gave scolding looks to imaginary young mothers–“Oh if ever. If I EVER! If I ever, never would have my children for lack of PerFECtion in my VAGinal regionistic regions.”


Larry the Restaurant Manager scoffed at sexual impediment as moral character builder–“It was just last week that I saw three penises over on Southbury St and they were the most natural things in the world. The most natural things in the whole boy world. Let ’em do their deedas, for the love of Old Jack Pete! My two girlfriends are just dyin’  to meet each other’s middles–down below the cumberbund for three quarters and a half (moan to all the wonderfuls)!”


Monica the Local Government Desk Clerk held her nose up to her lessers, which was everyone that ever existed–“They smell like pump and dumper. Where is my cream filling?! These people want to breathe the air in my space and I just hates the life out of ’em. Just look at my shoes. Just feel on my hair. You should not this and that and your children should only be such as so lucky to be as my children enrolled in the toppest, tippest schools and for worn the hoppest, hippest shoes. Unhand this world from filth of dirty hamster people that drive the roads and poop my pippy potty tops.”


Marco the Mailer, Jillian the Dragon Slayer, and Jim Bob the Door Knobber beat their heads all against the wooden wall to chant the chant, “I am center. I more money. I am center. I more money. I am center. I more money.” And cetera.


Jerome the Penny Minter foul noised and smelled the room, declaring to everyone that there was no God, “How in the smokin’ biscuit oven can one hand be SUPREME RULER over definite and expanding cosmos (all exactly calculated and all expertly proven by humankind) and people that so scientifically solve the ever-in-betweens and the never-in-bedont’s?”


And Lilly the Boonacycler spent the most of her time pissing on shoes and screaming death of chastity–“My pissed all screamin’ alla ya! Chastity is dead!”


And when Timmer left the room their souls all turned to flesh.


And living hurt like bleeding hell.





Westward Ho

Dandy looked across the plain. Westward drifters turnin’ Eastbound fast as they can. Spinning tight little circles–bodies in sharp cahoots. He started walking; Willy by his side. There was no reason for madness on a day like this, when the sky shinned bright like polished topaz, stretched and beaten to encase the world, to kiss the sea, to breathing free and–sffffffffff ah!–to come to me.

But the drifters–maniacs–puffed and hummed, spinning tight, their eyes bent on their path and their path bent to beaten down the earth and lay their bodies down to blessed numbness. They would go ’til they collapsed. Until the buzzards encroached upon their sweat seeeped skin and argued they were dead enough.

Dandy shot his rifle up into that sky. The drifters snapped and started West. They would not stop until something obstructed them, something like a fence, a boulder, the sea. There was a boat sponsored by the ACB and the coast guard would call and hopefully catch them before their muscles cramped or the sharks decided they were just about the bread enough.

Always west. Always west. Sometimes they would sense or feel something that would trip them up and turn them oil spill.

Almond eyes and cherry grins and there they go a spin again.

Same Old Always-was Stinks Like it Always Did (or Grab a Mop and Shovel, Love, and Mama Watcher Kids)

Keepa keepa can enclose-a
Tuna  loona brine
If hands don’t dance and if they don’t dance then they’re
No hands of mine.

Hoopsa hoopsa boy a hoopsa
Taker outtat five
If plans don’t chance to notch the romance then there’s
No plans to dine.

Eat a soupa croup ‘n’ whoopa
Boy you’ll ride the pine
If fans no chants in playoff advance with their
Collective whine.


Tops AND hops AND can-banano stops it
Ghural when u pop it
Menny wanna cop it

BullWHIP coolWHIP burnaturna drop ship
Beat em to the blue chips
Christening our pink slips


Cheepa cheepa boona boona
Giver ninner line
If Jan’s hot pants and if he slow dance when he
Hears Patsy Cline.


A cancered all the liver dancered

Lost among the slew;

We fought the naught and sever pantser

Down around our shoes;

We laughed and chimed and forty dimed

And grew our turnips blue–

Genetically enhanced ourselves

to bray the cat that mewed.


Hum Hum Hum Hum
The cat the donkey dooed!


McFuzzy gotst a Jacky Asser,

Reeled the water fine;

Some friends to play the bonnie lasser

friends are all of mine.

So raced and placed the ribbon on our

Thrusting bottom line

To spend the night in roaming heat

And do the donkey time.


Hum Hum Hum Hum
Tonight it’s donkey time!


Quit can’tya spit the null of it

And spur the dandy down?

Quick! underneath the sewage pit

the dirt is surely browned!


Our sight has leavin’ town!

It’s underneath the waters that our

Death can drink and drown!


Hum Hum Hum Hum
And gargle ankle bound!


Wine to Water


It strikes me as


that just as we

turn the tamed

(rake the land; torch and claim),

we stake the


as our own and

(cocksured decoding)

piecemeal the stitching of God

as a fourth-rate guess completely out of some context never known–like a three-year-old playing the lottery and, under every exclamation to the contrary, insisting that he’s won.



Cookies on the house.


Flyin’ Out the Roundabouts and Side Roads

Inconceivable. Incomprehensible.

Dastardly. Drawn-out. Cockleshelled. Shame-faced. Reprehensibled scribbled and shammed. Teased and fore-pleased and for never thanks, ma’am.

Take out the trash the back way, Samantha. The world might see. Just wait you fifty years and slap that soakin-sex there on the mount ‘n’ flat-chumped TV screen. Digitize your mother’s milk. Shave your silk. Turn outways upward of soured outcha ilk.

Crank it up! Oh, crank it up! Chig up the chipstunk and naked cup. Release the bondage that we can’t see. Flip out your devil on bended knees.


Pretend when you can that time enough is time without. Sit in a corner and milk the pout. Spit about. Motor clout. Day of in and days of out. Suppered by. Panty spout.


Diggin’ up the dancer.
I called the answer prancer.
He well endowed me through the shroud and
Now I feigned advancer.


We shot a marble with our eyes closed–distant space–and missed the mark by generations of severely astro-laughspans. Gape the mouth and throw it out and grasped the sea

a water can.

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