ull new transflations — Rosetta Stone hypothoses

Month: February, 2013

Gotter Oughter (or GPI: General Paralysis of the In Vain)

(clap clap clap)

I was a lot–

Forget me not!

My head is coal;

My arse is hot!

If I’m around

the afterthought,

Tell everyone

I’ve got my ought.


(shh shh shh)


About the years of eighty-two,

I newly borned

Just likey you!


But I was given special eyes

And blinded to

my own demise.


(clap clap clap)


I am a ton–

Egregious one–

A misty eye,

A burning bun.

If I’m aground,

I was outdone–

Too late to stay;

Too dead to run.


(shh shh shh)


Around the year two-thousand-three,

I shed the bread

For Bourgeoisie.


I took it to the peopled streets

To beg for

Glitter bits to eat.


(clap clap clap)


I was a lot–


My head is coal;

My arse is hot!

If I’m around

the afterthought,

Tell everyone

I’ve got my ought.



I’m a Real Boy

What happens when the waters take me? The fluids. Just wet enough. When–ready! Like a sneeze. No, a rocket! 


Catch me. You can’t catch me. All you guys. My brothers. Where we find the–? What’s the winner get? We are exchanging! We are life. Rocket life!

All these sounds. Woosh! And these heart beatings. Liquid warmerings, running, gooshy–vibrato! The Airplane. Haha! I’m barrel rolls! I’m eh-eh-eh-eh-eh-eh-eh-eh! You take that and you catch my dusterings!


Wahooo! HaHA! We’re cookin’ with fire now! Watch out for the wall! Left! Right! Left! Up! Move it!

Who’s the rotten egg? I am the first one. I am the king master manna! I can poke! I can poke poke poke! I can poke poke poke poke poke poke poke poke–

Hey what’s a–


Time is Now

Feels like an eternity.
Seals like phlem and dramamine.
Drops of sand that lie
One moment and the next.
As if the past was gone.
Counting clicks like

Feels like. Is.
Steals bike. Whiz.
Stationary pedaling.

I am Thirsty

We flashing

all our


like we


up to

the nines


And cash in

Cells to


Sells to







Surprise betide

Surprise we go and die


Forewarned that


Whores will




Table wine


J&B Lawn Care Equipment Supply

Through the glare in his eyes and the horrible stench of the midday alley–hole of a meeting place–Benny squinted at the ghost of a man he had once known. “But you’re dead,” he said.

Jerry pulled a pack of cigarettes. It was full of feathers. He bit one and lit it with his flip-top, dropped the feather to the pavement. “The winds are changin’.”

Benny rubbed his eyes.

“You ever eat chicken wings, Benny?”

“Sure, I don’t know. Yeah.”

“There’s tiny bones and you just bite off the meat.”

“If you got somethin’ to say to me from the dead world, say it.”

“You can get them in buffalo, that’s spicy, whatever–hawaiian, cajun, garlic parmesean. For every mood there’s a flavor.”

“I know how to eat a damn chicken wing.”

“Bone in or bone out. It’s simple. One has bones, one is boneless. No bones. It’s like a chicken nugget, but better. It’s covered in sauce. And quality meat. Depending.”

The sheen of Jerry’s face–of his whole demeanor–flickered a rotten hue. A stench peaked and dissipated. The winds were changing. Benny could feel an electric screaming inside his lost friend, could feel the sizz-pop of sinews. Fire. The burning of an engine. Benny took a step back.

“I come from the harbor,” Jerry said. “Whatever. A fish family. My father was a clammer. And that’s where he met my mother. I didn’t eat chicken until I was fifteen years old, Benny. Fifteen. Eighty-five percent clams and then whatever’s in the river.”

“Yeah, I grew up in Brooklyn, so what?”

“I’m dead. I swallowed the bones. I don’t know what I’m doing here, but everything I do is weird. I’m dead. Or I was, you know?”

Jerry sputtered. His pallor spoke a fine film and specs of spittle flew without as he struggled with something inside him. He threw an open hand to an alley cat–


It turned into a lawnmower.

Benny started and stumbled back, arms waving, tripped over a trashbag and fell the bulk of his head smack onto a dumpster behind him. “What are you doin’?!

Another cat, spooked out of it’s mind, bolted–reeewwrrr!

BAM! It was a garden hose.

“You’re dead then you–!”



Weedeater string.


Benny woke up in the bed of a hotel room, a warm rag on his head. His friend was coming out of the bathroom. “Jerry?” He covered his face with his hands, “Those cats,” he said.

Jerry was sweating, staring intently. A wry smile and cough. Benny shook his head. His eyes regained their composure and his face began to embrace a note of higher calling. He pursed his lips and spoke.


“Do you know how many cats are in this city?”


March to

Then I am man,
I whore my head,
Because my whim
Goes there instead.
My bastard buds,
This molded bread,
I bake forsaken
Deaf of dead.

Who goes the wretch?
This la la la!
Spore sores undressed and
Rah rah rah!
Lost trails of blood,
One last hurrah
Spread wings of meated birds


Aunt Louisey.


Who’s got the brimstone fever?

Where’s the won’t there

When you don’t fare

Time to bus the ether.


Aunt Louisey.


How is the wayward after?

What’s the big chair

See who goes there

Walls of devil laughter.



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