Dear Editors,
THREE O0ps
Investigate the fairy tale
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Detectives on the force had to drive hybrids. Patrolmen got V 8s. Big Endians got the patrol cars. Little Endians got the Prius. Dave called it a boiled egg. In the one percent stakeouts in Seattle they ate them in their lunch. Seattle mandated breaking the egg at the smaller end. Dave had peeled so many by the time he got to Phoenix he was inebriated with the hydrogen sulfide that burned on the dash. It caused hallucinations, not just about the egg. He had been reading Bouregarde about an egg alive with universal fire. Hold the wheel close it said, the steering wheel of love in human form. Spheres and spirals could sneak in extending from the center. These suit a moving wheel of luminous fire. Like deliberations drove all Phoenicians in the light bright air. The twenty second burst of endorphins that followed mistook conventions. If the lights of these collective Tales seem delusion to you right now then compare with chemtrails. They seem silly, then they’re weird and then unbelievably repulsive.
Turk Musselman Pop, the New York publisher of Atlantic Books, in a further life became a gadabout of the Stoatsdale line. He weighed 800 pounds.
Momma Pop or Dame Schultz is the original Guap who the billboard industry hopes will lure the reader to devour the tale.
No one can reveal what the crime is in general. This fairy tale is still aborning, but if it slips out, too bad. The facts suggest these Bears weren’t quite eating porridge. Philosophies of porridge range up and down the chain of discontent. The particular house of the Oops on Willetta, the mythic ginger house of the Dame, is one world for those who dwell therein.
Snow White tasted this porridge and fell asleep. Falling asleep means to be taken with the tale. The detective, Lighthouse Dave, is a Snow White and a Goldilocks combined, which makes him the innocent that Dickens said, whether that house belonged to hobgoblins or bears. You are bound to hear more of the bears. Dave is called Lighthouse for his excessive height and Goldilocks from the rays reflecting from his long gold hair, pale from the dust always shining in the air, like a surfer with lights down to the shoulders, the Goldilocks who investigates same in a department overwhelmed with weekend surfers of Malibu.
Three beds, three chairs, three bowls, three Oops discover in one turn eating, sitting and lying. The first was wrong, the second was wrong, and the third was the exact same technique to make Banquo “safe.” Whether Bettelheim’s post-Oedipal ego fantasies or Freud’s pre-Oedipal preschooler disrupting order, submitted to the doctoral Oxford committee on the respect of private property, these concepts fly across the universe, past developmental psychology, biology, economics and engineering into the astronomers dream of the Goldilocks Zone that’s just right. Look there for a New Zealand planet orbiting the sun at just the right distance for liquid water to run on its surface. Magnum Oopum meaning master work in French, and its plural being chefs-d’œuvre, might as well be hors d’œuvre. Not to further baffle the minds of the generations of Noah, there were also being three kinds of pot, Momma pot, Poppa pot and baby pot in this cannabinol zone where the atmosphere hangs like a bong.
Ook: seeking Susan
Dave Cacher
Cow Velvet
Street Writer-folk tales of guapa pop
Dave Cacher 2
OOps Pub
Dave Casher [2]
OOk likke Suzy
OOks boxcar cow
OOk three signs of an ool
OOps of the Missing beads
OOks 17 Nov 14
Eating I Susan
OOKs in the order, a cartoon
Dave Cacher the lighthouse
Goldilock Lighthouse used in- empty susan, in italics
Just one burglary the whole night long. The strangest event anybody could remember. The ley lines down the center of McDowell glowed red. A wedge of four F 16s flew up 20th St. and disappeared over the Peak. There was an Arco redecorated like a tomato at the corner where there used to be a Dairy Queen and a Stanley’s Polish Sausage. Dave pulled in.
Rational explanations for the bizarre behaviors that follow, the toxic plume that flowed west from the old Mootola plants, seeping up through the soil in vapor of these times told and retold spread, changed shape on the poles and walls above while the plume percolated below. Everything we know of that time was wacked, even if we don’t know, so it’s not like we are simply biased. We are wacked. I mean in the best sense that reality is not one for these times. Whether the Arco was only a kind of parable that looked like a tomato, it and everything else was what you think. So if the Arcos are tomatoes, why are not cars egg cartons carrying eggs?
In this surprise of social blunder the OOps come in. They crisscross the sky like a rocket ship from White Sands that fall into an underground super fund. Lift your hand slowly from the kettle. Tomato Arco proves this golden age where reality frayed and woke to a tale Poe wouldn’t tell. Future apparitions of fairy land were released to public eye.
When Dave pulled into the Arco baby shoes hung from the wires above the Welcome to McDowell Villalobos, Village of Wolves sign, home to trailer parks and psychic reads, auto shops, car washes, iglesias, mueblerias and wood fired eats. There being no threat, not even calls from the night before, he had the windows down. Little men pushing ice cream carts were ringing their bells. Just one burglary in all the town! The strangest event anybody could remember, as if some great pressure had been relieved.
If you meet a fairy tale out walking what do you say? With any sense at all you won't go south to McDowell tonight to find out. I don't mean those southy indigenous chupacabras out of Grimm. We already said McDowell runs the girdle of the world. Quotes from Shakespeare were tacked up on phone poles. These made up the first dispatch that newsman posted from his desk in the office under the old castle on Van Buren. These dispatches included the Mars anomalies too, the violet edges on the sea, first landings in Mare Crisium, psychometric radar, completely bald and unblinking? Our reporter on the fairy world where horizons persist with caves, giant holes and praying towns, where luminous beams inside the Clavius crater speak of Plato, but what do we hear from earth?
Outer Phoenix was like the outer Crisium. It had solved its fuel crisis by fermenting beet gas but not the carrot of surrounding towns. Where detectives drive eggs and cars are red peppers at pumps of beet juice, you might prepare to dance the night away. Bettelheim sums up those Oedipals who “drive an egg” in the dwarfs of Snow White that cry, "Someone's been sitting in my chair!" “Someone's been eating off my plate!" This is just the three bears too, meaning buckle up: a "promise of future happiness awaits those who have mastered their Oedipal situation as a child.”
You already know the quarrel about eggs and chickens in the cosmos, visible from earth’s center. To humor the egg an onion was at the next pump. We're not talking here about only spheres, but spirals and breasts extending from the mountains whose believers decree such conventions that if the gates flip in the next moment we might forget that all of us share this bank account in common.
What other vegetables drive around the city in a day, what celery buses and zucchini trucks can you spectate and where can we buy more of that off market high octane Beetle gas? You ponder these questions when you learn that every city has a secret name, commonly an opposite. Phoenix’s was Dewpit, considered the udder on the tip of the great Pied Cow. This mirrors the mistranslation of Dave's name on the force. He was not Dave Cash natively, but Dave Cacher in French, which means to hide. That got shortened to Cash in the life of a cop where foibles of nicknames become jokes. Sometimes they called him chers. A female detective named Boise was called Boysee in the office because she was a looker. Donald Don, lived on the canal so he was named for ducks. They all had crosses to put each other on. Lambri got his name because he biked to work. But that didn’t stop Dave. He was tall so they called him Lighthouse. And it wasn’t far in that logical extension to find the excuse for calling the greatest one of all Goldilocks. For he would look in your home.
You suspect all your tall white dudes come from Holland. Probably Goldy Lighthouse, surfer hair not slicked back, but fuzzed like the aurora of the sun was Netherlandish and even spoke part of the native Limburgh, but he was also French with some other blood in there too that suggested a rez fro. He could have been called moonbeam, or sunshine, or starlight, but the Goldy thing was made worse by his breaking open the case of the Three OOks. They were also called Ooks but to further the accident, and to further favor the fairy, they were mighty big bears too, that is if they had been bears. A big grizzi to eat ya you might be forewarned, which is why these folktales abound in surrounding events.
The result was that this is not a nice upon a time fairy tale where a tall detective whose name is Goldilocks investigates three bears on vacation in a house in Dubai. He bore this miss speech as another foible of the daily work. The Sky Harbor district named for the airport took in the warehouses, pulperias and lumberyards along the dust banks and downtown landfills. Squatter camps extended to the base of the mountain towers, up and over. If that valley divided into north and south which is the way of explorers not to the west and to the globe, where we say they love the centric part, pretending the girl is a globe, we know where the center lies.
Dave Cash wasn't sure of the department’s position on fairy enforcement. Whether the tale preceded the actual or the actual the tale.
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Police procedure dictates things stored in cold cases and archives can only be leaked sourcelessly to the press, so a lot of what occurs is just sourceless gossip from murder boards, interviews, interpretations, verbatim transcripts. Not that Dave would collect them in any form other than a murder book held closely in the department. Grand juries suppose this and a lot more. We got a copy of the murder book which is another main source here. Wires and surveillance tell even more. So we have a lot to tell, not to go on and on about the docket and the process. In that town they took their teenagers to the lockup for a night just to give them a taste, same as thr tales are a taste, still painted on buildings, if you can read. White sock innocence is part of the decoration now, licensed by the signage of the city, legit people eating under the rubric of nonsense. So read the billboards more closely and look for signs.
How you get these exclusives is known if you worry about the language. Native speakers determine language and of the two informants so far Jaky Dutch was so native from the breast that he traded carte blanc in truth and fantasy. His paperback, Trade in Body Parts, shows one part of this overt cannabinol.
But Dave was a linguist too, more than he let on. He kept an Anglo-Saxon dictionary by his bed to read to go to sleep where the word faer existed in the old tongue before. Beside Dave’s dictionary he kept collections of street tales like so much folklore. It turned him into one himself. Along with other coyote tales, Hopi legends, Navajo forts and legends up and down the canyons among the brush wees of the Rio Grande and above, to the Colorado running cold, the tales that in that day were put upon poles, or on walls in praty paint with hints, were part of these, so hints were possibly found in old pamphlets of painters of Dutchtown, Lon Megaree -- as he was once called along Van Buren among untouched Degrazias found in thrifts, more Blue Rider than realist. The tales exploded at various points of the Rio Salado into epiphanies of nonsense and whimsey suitable for the pied bald amnesia of the times which substituted the blast of the sun at 110 for indoor temperatures of freezer rooms. That packages of orm meat could stop this civilization in its tracks along with the force of crime so many days in that sleepy town of 5 million, yea ten when all the refugees stopped coming, equal to the romance of old Jacob Waltz, but these refugees would know nothing of the history of their new solace without such tales as these. As the investigation first proceeded it led to those tales emanating from the neighborhoods along the freeways and tide flats. Beside Dave’s bed the third informant named in this affair, one El Ephod, was a mystery among the mysteries, thought to have written many street tales and authored as Unifers, so called, Ubers of the strata drifting down to the Salt in the plumes and the aluminum air.
What’s under the surface made the Arcos and street writing innocent compared, the utopian system fed by Cannabis The more innocuous the world the more we could overlook what’s really going on. Don’t they say beauty is in the eye of the beholder? So at the beginning our story has to solve the dilemma of perception? But first we get the fluff when the plumes were fast flowing. They went underground much the way the fiber bar went too. All this is to say that the Dame lived south where hot shots would not go. It takes a while to absorb. North you may enjoy pleasures of a conscious sort. And where that stops nobody knows, but where she starts we do. The real is a combinatorial of seepage cannabiods and cell phones, billboards, TV, coffee joints and people reading from scripts like they are in a play that means they used to be people, but now poe-ple the telltale effects are ticking.
These real physical contaminations are far more present than the hate and prejudice added to the American gene of public life by it multitude of trans groups. |
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Cleanup of Toxic, Cancer-Causing Chemicals in Phoenix Groundwater has been Delayed for Years and TCE. |
When Dave got the call it was nothing but a relief to get out of driving around in an egg. This is accomplished in stages, first standing on the feet, where onlookers would see him going up and up, near seven feet from where the egg door popped, tall enough to justify the name. He looked like Schnützelputz Häusel on stilts. He was taller than Connie Hawkins at the doubles net.
Just this one burglary in all of Phoenix! The first report of the home was had it scorched and on fire. This was inaccurate. The crusted limestone on the blackened chimneys was guano. Zoning had moved to condemn and board up the building and citizens had already boarded up the entrances and exits of the canal ditches to prevent burglars. But there were no longer any patrols. Five gallon buckets of motor oil were stored under the citrus. Police in the fairy zone always try not to know where they are. Dave had raised his suspicions to yellow with reason, the investigation into this burglary turned murder was to develop multiple case names and persons. Dame Oops was the original complainant. A second, her husband, GrimmPop Turk Musselman, was a missing person, and a third, one Guapa Suzie Pop ended up having the fairy tale syndrome named for her. Lollipop! Lollipop! You understand that in Fairy Tale reports come without explanation. At the clearing of this primordial forest the neighbors south are no joke. That puts us solidly in the Vegan camp.
There was a bookworm there that advertised spiritual lessons. rocket fires. Shards of incandescent orange-white-streamers shot off from White Sands.
Dave had been driving down McDowell with the windows open.
Lighthouse, where, when it's over you may say the lights go out in a snuff or come on with a flip. Take your pick.
The OOps had had a breakin some previous night, inexact because of the incoherence of the call and the date smudged in the report read over the radio, something about a missing bead collection, fare usually scheduled for answer in coming weeks if at all got there because there was nothing else. He had driven the whole length of McDowell with green lights, past all the start ups and thrifts, meat packers and secondhand furnitures, beauty parlors and diners, the half hundred pieces of Isis rendered for the nations, this summer shift began at six. where Susan was eating in the tale.
Cleanup of Toxic, Cancer-Causing Chemicals in Phoenix Groundwater has been Delayed for Years
and TCE.
The Dame of Guapa Pop
Her name was Myth.
Her pop was Guapo Myth.
In his life as Turk Musselman Guapo was an all night party poop along the Scottsdale
border.
His daughter Susan looked like him, but she had hair.
Sidewalks cracked when they stood together.
Depressions left by their feet in the park drowned little dogs.
Nobody connected Pop’s disappearance with Dame Belcher’s purchase of a walk-in
freeze. Presumption credits that the Dame, Turk’s second spouse, had too much
brew the night that Myth got shanked and smoked. That was three full years
before Susan entered the same.
For all they were nice folks. Goats populated piles of debris.
For all they were quiet folks, never a loud noise unless you count the chickens
or the occasional gaseous emission.
The belches anyway were pleasant, made you think you lived on the coast off
Hoboken where ferries and tugboats echoed by night.
In this world, home from the bowling leagues, came Sue. She rented balls and
shoes. Crowds gathered. Men pinched women and shook hands. Traffic beeped for
blocks.
Sue Myth had had the front seat of her car removed so she could drive from the
back. Not that she was tall. She was wide. Blocks on the pedals enabled her to
pump them up and down.
What are you waiting for me to tell, that Step Dame ate the Musselmans?
This is no joke, but odious as all decay that stops a hole to keep the wind
away. Women doing what men have all along, a sign of the time, quartering
purple mountains, packaging fruited plains?
There’s an excuse for eating Susan? The profit of developers? Who pays the
taxes, gets permits? Neighborhoods are zoned for cannibalism?
Smoke poured from the gingerbread chimney.
She ate Pop.
She ate Sue.
What are you waiting for me to say?
Him and her? That’s all there is.
It’s a case of provocation and murder.
One day she was there. The next day she’s gone.
“She’s
gone, she’s gone, when thou knowest this
thou
knowest the swell carcass Sue Myth is.”
2.
Sue Myth went her way o’er hill and dale, in wagon and under arm to the
Frigidaires and stewpots of the Danger Mountains.
The dark moon of January,
cool breezes of light,
porch slivers were quiet,
Susan had not been seen in weeks.
Chickens were silent as canal ditches.
The homeless drifted home.
Dame Fortune wrote on the canvas of unmaking.
Freezer humped a blues.
Sixty Watt tramped out the back of Belcher’s hutch. That sissy bulb was
smashed. Hedgerows ran unbelieving. They came in through the bathroom window.
Shout, cuidado!
You’d think the glass would tinkle a warning, but it was new safety glass, no
louder in breaking than fir trees that put their feet in plywood sheets last
summer.
How many came is anybody’s guess.
A syndicate is implied for the body to spread so far.
Wagons and bicycles if not trucks and trains backed up.
What did the bandits do when they came to that massive barred door, the freezer
room running off the entry?
Look out! Look out!
Go fast, room to room, poke closets and open the cold door?
Sides of beef, chickens hung from hooks?
Or was it packed in white, labeled by compartment like Glendale housewife,
roast under veil, loin in the defroster, and veal?
You only see it dimly.
Freezer light’s not bright.
You best see it quickly.
No place linger winter nights.
Quick hands roust the white packs.
Up on boxes, down the hooks!
Fat sausages or arms?
What hams?
Dread Gorgon!
Susan of the smoke and a cloudy day! Susan who stood the walk and could have
been a ghost of hundreds who never dreamed their expectations this-a-way. Guapa
Susan.
Relays boost to pickups.
Wholesale all the day.
Others rush to grandma’s house.
Slam girlfriend’s fridge.
Bang Susan in ice chest.
Sneak her in Mom’s Westinghouse,
wrapped as a decorator might.
White paper covered the deed of the Dame, who called police for the missing,
freezer empty, her bead collection on the floor that night.
3.
Patrolmen filled out the case card, took figures for insurance.
Next day, Detective Dave Lighthouse came, with nothing left to do, peace had broken
out. That night’s initiative? Step Dame let him in.
No warrant was needed to investigate a crime.
Living room led to dining, dining room to kitchen, en passant to freezer, solid
eight by ten.
Officer hesitated entry.
“They took all your meat?”
“Yes, they did! My daughter’s missing and I can’t find my plates!”
“Have you filed a missing person report?”
“No sir, she’s gone! After all the trouble I took in getting her right! What
can I do now?”
“Well, Ma’am, you can file a missing person report and if she doesn”t turn up
in thirty days we can give her to the FBI.”
“No, no! She’s not missing like that! She’s gone!”
The officer advised Step Dame of her rights. Alarm spread our city. An APB for
meat.
Freezers were sought by mothers seeking Susan.
The purveyors thought it a joke.
Weathermen puzzled the news:
“What goes east and west
and north and south
but never stays the same?”
Children riddled at bus stops:
“One, two, three, four
Who’s behind the white door?”
It was the eighth wonder of the world in a town that had a spa.
II. Dutch Waltz Schultz Since so much of the reports on the desk and in the murder book come foreom the results of the scavenges of Scultz, called Waltz, I mean the ms; of el ephod, it needs to be trancks fromr werere.
GoldiPOp
So the neighborhoods south of McDowell were
eating GoldiPOp that night.
This is no joke.
Would you eat a nice moo cow coming down the road, in your yard? With
all the trimmings? It was logical. GoldiPOp was as big as a cow and that
likened her.
She worked nights and came home in the day. Her car vented smoke like
a blue tornado. When she put the pedal down it erupted from a distance.
Crowds gathered on walks.
Chickens stirred their stripes. Voices ran like sirens. Widows did business in
directions. At dawn you looked out your window for the fire, but the fire
engines never came. Susan drove in the
midst. Arms waved. Voices greeted her coming. Dust settled. It was Tuesday,
which is all routine will do. The neighbors were watching her. You'd have done
different?
The fence rows of that house surrounded GoldiPOp. She could still
live in a building like you or me. Certain modifications had been made, doors
widened, foundations reinforced. Her chair was a two-story bed. One wall sagged
in the corner of the floor while the little red phone on the wall was ringing.
That phone was ringing because the goats were gossiping. You ate Goldy and
think this an exaggeration?
Science has long proven that earth is a homogenous ecoplasm which
affects everything.
So?
Allegory, dude.
Susan lived where no white person dared. She was shortened down to
the nubbin, parceled out by the bone! They saw her largeness and loved her,
mountain and plain. Word went home.
Come to Goldy!
Kindreds gathered. She pulled up to the curb smoking in her car to
appreciative murmurs.
Peepo storked and Lydia cried.
Men in potato sacks around 7-11's tramped out of their boxes for the views
2. Aldrich
1. Instances of collective delusion, the Foote drive episode as theatre to show the extreme irreality of the bubble thought, its inflation deflation, the cosmic rays penetrating the earth from the loss of the sun’s aurora, producing its collective theatre the way the Foote house shows Andrew the bubble thought, right in the face, that since I bought him a car I should buy him a house, not that he should show his gratitude by developing his gifts,
2. Like the moment of a fall when the balance is lost and consciousness too so that the person has no memory, just a kind of black out until they land. Aunt libby, the hay wagon, the chain saw fall, Aeyrie on Camelback. Is this neurological or psychological 3. This affects the way people drive in their lanes those big trucks and suvs with phones in their hands and computer screens on the dash, and at high rates of speed, also impaired with cosmic rays, mj, drink, whatnot. They think they are driving well.
4. Also that many people came into nursing without empathy from other occupations but left it in a couple of years because they couldn’t stand it, meaning the pain. Others become NP as career advancement but without vocation such as Pat has who wants to preserve the lives of the good people who come to her inorder not to save the lost, but to save the good.
These matters are compounded by empire delusion, demigod delusion, heroic delusion, domination delusion so that the counterfeit on counterfeit enables the new architecture of buildings and thought like that of the wrecked car or ship, but still they will not hear. Right from the start delusion was factored on the Christians and Jews to defeat the purity of their thought.
Also note that pueblo designs are rectilineal but European apocaphyist art is curvilinear.
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4/11/18 Wed. Faer Press: “The Old English word above holds inside it many meanings. It is a going, a journey, a way, a journeying, an expedition, a road, a passing, a course, a march, a voyage, a path; it is a place where passage is possible, a thoroughfare, an entrance; it is that in which a journey or voyage is made – a vehicle, vessel, carriage, ship, ark; it is a body of persons who journey, a crew; it can also mean fear, peril, danger, sudden, intense and beautiful. [information gathered from the Bosworth-Toller Anglo-Saxon Dictionary]…This word can conjure others too if you look at it long enough: it could be the just-out-of-sight otherworld of færy; it could be a gathering of festive merriments from afar – a fair, or the gift one would give to another at such an occasion – a fairing…”
-- the uranium sea.
--Fairy Tale. Hansel and Gretel --ae emblems in this case the poverty of home life prepackaged culminating in their education at univ where they are completely consumed. The bait consists of the ornate promises of the digital life they lead, the way all nature is corrupted, falsified by its bowers of bliss, instantaneous gratification, lack of ownerships in reality, self driving cars, but the villain is the education system itself which consumes them with false ideas of the world and life even while it convinces them they are superior to it all. Victim consciousness, flora of the golden age, masks.
We come not yet to the quandary that, as to why a man should even have tried to know a cow, even a symbolical cow. For as it says in the folklore, Susan was as big as a cow and that likened her. Or how we dare approach her with this superficial levity when a kind of religious awe is more appropriate to the chemistry. That is where an adoring company of readers must assist so solemnly in these services when necessary diversions open the ball to cope the boredom.
Aldrich lives in the torvea castle
Dave the Lighthouse is investigating a crime, but it leads him to investigate the folklore behind and concurrent with it, which leads him to discover its cause in the TCE plumes under the city.
Dave Cash, a detective in the old Sky Harbor District, wasn't the only one unsure of his place in fairy tale, whether the tale preceded the actual or the actual the tale. Dave had not searched the luminous beams of the Clavius crater as his unsought competitor in this investigation had. S/O Aldrich, from under the old castle on Van Buren had investigated the Plato that Canadians know, the violet edges of the sea, first landings in Mare Crisium, spherical luminosities, psychometric radar. He had given his first dispatch of the Mars anomaly from there too, and his Travel to Mercury, so he was suited to try the reins that street tale out walking. If you meet a fairy tale out for a stroll what do you say? If you have any sense you won't go south of McDowell tonight to find out, further than one street anyway. North you can enjoy all pleasures of innocence, but south those indigenous chewbacca Chupacabras run.
Neither Dave or S/O knew that fairy tale had arrived in DewPit City. You illumined know that Phoenix has a mystical name because it sits right atop the grid lines N. Latitude 33.30.3, same as Bermuda Triangle. Remotes intersect Painted Desert chakras and the Hopi Mesas with Orion's belt.
Completely bald and all unblinking thoughts issued from the desk Aldrich inhabited. What do you hear from earth, Aldrich, do horizons persist with eaves, caves, giant holes and praying towns? Some flickering bulbs can't decide whether they are on or off. All this is to say that the Dame Oops lived south where, hot shots, Dave would now go.
Sky Harbor was called a fairy force after the fact--right now we shall be content to call it a kind of flaming in the desert.
Lighthouse
Aldricch::::The 33rd parallel goes go right down the center of McDowell. Some think it whacks out as far as Wickenburg. The GPS right down the center is a magic dividing line. Everything south of McDowell after a grace period of one street is the Combat Zone. Google maps and topographies, give electrogravitic proof that this is the most potent gateway in the northern hemisphere. A neutral observer might take it with the fume of poppies, but any time one borders the 33rd we should likely recall the experience and be grateful to have been spared. Going east the 33rd runs into the Dutchman mine anthe Rhine Maidens.
The hidden name of Pied Cow is Dew Pit, the City of Shards. That outer city like the outer Cash had salvaged for this peace, but Dave, who had been watching was bored silly. The thing about a watcher is there’s nobody to report to and the buck stops at the crossing of x and y. B meets him later, so, look out. You get the impression detective tales can’t just call up and ask what to do. The kind of witnesses we get say that Moses killed Og on Mr. Hermon and that in quincunx was enough to identify the putative landing dock of the Grigori, 33.33 north and 33.33 east, as measured from the Paris Meridian. Roswell, 2012 nautical miles from the equator, is an equally sacred 33 latitude degrees north, equidistant 2012 miles both from equator and from the Meridian. What more do you want? This latitude (33.28),\ multiplied by Pi, gives 104, its longitude in 1947, which hasn't changed much since. No word on how many kms it would throw us off if the names change but the scene remains. Gilgamesh called his Hermon the Garden of the Gods where "they" swore upon the mountain they would take wives and return, but that came under review. The exact location described, is purposefully not known in order to prevent the floods from their dissolution. Not to confuse, it was not in Seattle as some alleged. Possibilities in the East Valley near the foot of the Salt stretch all the way from Tonopah.
Of course everyone thinks the opposite, but never has there existed a mind so brilliant as uses an iphone, that perfect beanstalk to heaven. Lighthouse had been promoted from counting the beehives in the hollow trunks of the community. From the Paris Meridian elite Zonies say, civilization has a sacred, secret destiny to mind the portals and crossings of ley lines. These correlate with lost Mayan and Aztec texts. Straight down McDowell, steroes, endoscopies, tacos, Ollie Vaughn's eithiop, carnicerias on one side, and zumbas, tortas, limos, plum repair, llanteras, bi-low dentist uniforms on the other. People out in the parks at night wait with cameras for the lights, that section of the universe where lines with Pi multiply times 33! Down at the airport they try to signal them in. On one hand what the sages wrote about the Mareotic Lake, on the other the flyin Swift X. Crash the mystery pix!
Most of the planet south of the 33rd was asleep when Dave went in and got a rice soda at the convenience, which was all they had after meat had been outlawed. Hamburgers had been closed down. No one knew just what was in them any more, a further instance of that vegan syndrome called Susanopathy. But we get ahead of the tale.
Let's be polite, Dave Cash saw the moocow in the road. What happens next has eluded the very best. If this cartoon is perhaps not your tea maybe you could heat it, but Dave didn’t have prima facie evidence because it had all been eaten. He had instead to access the published folklore background on line.
There was another competitor for the case of the missing beads, one Aldrich Gershom Sumer, writing for the DP Publica. His Nixies of Brunhild had not come out. Aldrich declared that the reptilian humanoids trapped in Austin and Tucson and other capitols could not escape. DewPit of course was less contained by the elements and escape could be had in any direction. Instead of volcanoes, glaciers and ice foes, it had towering Haboobs and microbursts. Temps over 110 kept the locusts at bay. The caliche was like an ice plain except for the heat. Aldrich worked three part time jobs, but kept the police scanner tuned. He heard dispatch to Dave Cash as he pulled up to Damer's hut. Aldrich disclosed the five gallon buckets of motor oil stored under citrus, which shows what kind of reporting goes on in the Parallel. A sort of a diptych, Aldrich had taken to listening to Milton on tape inside his four wheel turnip, seeking moments of inspiration. He was composing a song for a local group called, The Crescents of Asphalt,
ribbons of light the transcendent zone
arched roof Pendant
by subtle Magic shown,
many a row Of Starry Lamps
and
blazing Cresents fed
With Naphtha and Asphaltus
light from a radar bed.
Neither Dave Cash or Aldrich S&O were aware that fairy tale had arrived in Phoenix or rather future apparitions of fairy tle.For real, neither believed. DewPit City sits right atop the intersection of grid lines N. Latitude 33.30.3, same as Bermuda Triangle. Remotes view it with the chakras of Painted Desert and beliefs of Third Mesa Hopis as aligning with the stars in Orion's belt. This is proven from the Gadsden Purchase and the lights of Arriva.
Presented first with the fiat accompli of lawyers that entrants to Cinderella cannot fathom, the next rungs up never take a metaphor seriously but with a grin. The recent past took it as correspondences which are denied the present from its overwhelming sensations. so if we draw it it looks like this:
Ladder first the cow
then the fairy tale that ate the cow
then the real effect in the neighborhoods
than the call mistaken to Detective Cash
then the newspaper accounts
then the embellishments, endless to boot,
then the meaning, the symbol, the interpretation
then the sigh of relief
that it's none of it truer than little red riding hood or bo peep.
Many of these above and below when the gates open the next superposition will subliminally forget.
Alma maters media hand-pick their platforms, see 1 Aug, a head taller than the others and burly, talking about bullying and its effects, what to do, but esp. not to bully those who are smaller and weak. I Prayed with him about it, a good big kid reachable. After, talking to a couple, I said THERE WERE HOLES IN THE AIR around him as we talked. Something about interaction. The idea is that if I as an adversary intend to attack you and declare it as 'information in plain sight', it effectively has your consent. We recognize by name and see in media all those hand-picked for their platforms because they possess the characteristics of the subjects who have been successfully indoctrinated and brainwashed by the inherent adversary in control of the matrix beast system.
Ambiguity magnifies nuts. There was little trust in the chicken around here, and less in the human DNA burgers. Along with vegan gas and egg technology frijoles and huevos pass the time.
The
neighborhoods south of McDowell weren’t eating GoldiPOp that night.
That was a joke.
Would you eat a nice moo cow coming down the road, in your yard? With
all the trimmings? It was logical. GoldiPOp was as big as a cow and that
likened her.
She worked nights and came home in the day. Her car vented smoke like
a blue tornado. When she put the pedal down it erupted from a distance.
Crowds gathered on walks.
Chickens stirred their stripes. Voices ran like sirens. Widows did business in
directions. At dawn you looked out your window for the fire, but the fire
engines never came. Susan drove in the
midst. Arms waved. Voices greeted her coming. Dust settled. It was Tuesday,
which is all routine will do. The neighbors were watching her. You'd have done
different?
The fence rows of that house surrounded GoldiPOp. She could still
live in a building like you or me. Certain modifications had been made, doors
widened, foundations reinforced. Her chair was a two-story bed. One wall sagged
in the corner of the floor while the little red phone on the wall was ringing.
That phone was ringing because the goats were gossiping. You ate Goldy and
think this an exaggeration?
Science has long proven that earth is a homogenous ecoplasm which
affects everything.
So?
Allegory, dude.
Susan lived where no white person dared. She was shortened down to
the nubbin, parceled out by the bone! They saw her largeness and loved her,
mountain and plain. Word went home.
Come to Goldy!
Kindreds gathered. She pulled up to the curb smoking in her car to
appreciative murmurs.
Peepo storked and Lydia cried.
Men in potato sacks around 7-11's tramped out of their boxes for the
view.
Leaping Cow
Our great writers consult Fried Dutch on this, who said, "unless we become as cows we shall not give milk.” That’s the short of it. The whole quote is,
cattle grazing as they pass you by
do not know what is yesterday.
They leap, eat, rest, digest and leap
from morn till night till day.
Der folk might ask why don’t you speak
fair cow, but only stand and gaze?
But the cow forgot what it would say
and then forgot forgetting.
All who drink from the old milk pail confess, “I cried because I can't believe I forget!” said Thustra thursting.
Zara excuses the neighbors watching Sue, who lived in a house like him, even if her hall was a bowling lane and one corner chair reversed into a two-story bed. Beloved by all who overcame that meal Dame Belcher prepared to claim.
The Poles
The poles had got a little quack-clucked.
Some of the broadsides read, “mythopoeias reave the sky,” but that sounds more like thought- goat than cow. Talk Goat verses on the wall dispute the true Dutch. They also were witnesses of the jaded puppoets. We get used to this to to what any of us learn from car licenses and oleander bushes, belches of elves presuming the aqueous, and little discrete developments of gin.
Turk Musselman, oh Poppa-Pop, he could answer if he would, but since he ran the Party sloops along the Sea of artery lite, the Scottsdale border, didn’t matter much. Do you sometimes think that all this is spoke in code? Susan herself must have known since all the kindreds gatted up to shout when she pulled home. When Sue Lit jetted up the poles waved like spaghetti. Largess has always ruled our nation from the top. More immigrants were needed so word went out. Down to the nubbin, out to the bone, so when more came and the smoke roared up there were tales. But who reads the phone poles now?
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Right down the center of McDowell. Quotes from Shakespeare on poles and buildings prove it. This is the girdle of the world with ley lines whacked as far out as GPS can manage, a dividing line of that whole region. Everything south after a grace period of one street is the Zone. Simon Real lived in that zone along McDowell. He was a street writer who traveled as Jakie Dutch in the broadsides or just Dutch in the old language of the street. There is a subtype which itself divides in classes, if you’re one of those. The shopping cart, large bag, derelict set, trolling cans from the blue barrels, that is different from the pickup trucks loaded with bed frames and covered with plastic tarps. Bringing the buried to life includes the street writer who reports to work before dawn at the sales, looks out for urban arrowheads, pieces of colored glass, scavenger, rag picker and hunter of the daily or maybe some neighbor throws out a desk, or lawn chairs with a bag of verbs. A street writer just happens on what everyone else doesn’t know, like Voth among the Hopi or exposed pitches of white quartz in the mountains where they chop out Cottonwood root to carve. Serendipity plays a trick when somebody knows nothing but sees its value. A little light around the body, people setting out the 50’s for trash, all the doors and windows of their houses, cabinets and furniture replaced by Ikea, or sheets of plexiglass a quarter inch thick and building materials that go with it, sheets of copper, even Pueblo pots of Maria at roadside at the right time, closeouts of all the art when the banks go under again, MERA bank, Valley Bank and their Indian art. There are Fritz Scholders so big they can’t either be moved or displayed by ordinary proles who have to settle for bags of leaves still free for the asking, to grow the vintage tomato, or rolls of Chinese pictograms passed on for their water stains. It’s not as if they risk a lot. Treasures are not just cheap, they are cast offs for a dollar, charcoal sketches of Singer Sargent for $2, Leonard Baskin’s Illustrated Divine Comedy for $10, though you need a wagon to haul it or repeated volumes of the 26 copies of the Warren Report failed conspiracy nuts throw out, not that that would go on Antiques Road Show with the tempted art dealer who asked for prints of Gustave Baumann and got one brought to him signed in the center of a book. Even Arizona’s native son Jack O’Connor lingered in the thrift piles signed, which in typical fashion the scout removing it to a dealer called it “Frank O’Connor” and was told Frank was worthless but Jack was something. We remind our Jack. Jakie had the Jack as did others of the streets, the fleas, you know the kind, where the jack of all trades a not master of the mind. On the spur of a moment Jakie gave $600 on impulse to buy a bookstore’s entire collection of used art catalogues, filled a station wagon with these, and there find the offprint of El Ephod among the auction bulletins of Modern Chinese Paintings. The Three OOps it was called, folded and stuffed in various versions among the pages like the glossary he once found in first printings of Lord of the Rings. explanations of cradle tongue, eucatastrophe, faërie, legendarium, and such proper names what now you can get from a used Cliff’s Notes. The auction of the Chinese was held precisely at three P.M. at Hong Kong City Hall by Sotheby. There would be no such glories for Three Big OOps as they were called, found inside these art bulletins, wrapped inside an old bag of Bulk Foods, unless you think early examples of the plastic bag are valuable themselves. A big red scoop in a yellow bin on the cover said Scoop up the Savings, but across the bottom was a warning in red. WARNING; THIS IS NOT A TOY. TO AVOID DANGER OF SUFFOCATION, KEEP THIS PLASTIC BAG AWAY FROM BABIES AND CHILDREN. DO NOT USE IN CRIBS, BEDS CARRIAGES OR PLAYPENS. El Ephod, whoever that is, who wrote the pamphlets. Beside him a number of characters call McDowell and the 33rd home home besides Simon Real aka Jakie Dutch, the Oops themselves, father, mother, and daughter who sound like fiction but the more we hear of them the more they are real. Dave Cash, the Lighthouse who worked the case found this out. Nick Aldrich, the reporter, more minor characters than we can name, bums, hoboes, outsiders, runaways, homeless and ragged remnant of the old pioneers join this Simon Real himself who writes folklore too. Simon saw it first hand, which means that when Goldipop put the pedal down smoke was everywhere from her car. Obviously this needs explanation but suffice for the moment that she worked late nights in a bowling alley renting balls and shoes and when she came home in the morning her car smoked great clouds out the back. This caused folks gathered from streets away to see if there was a fire. But there was no fire, and no sirens either, just riot and smoke from her car. Vulkan! cried the crowds, waving to adore. I going to give it to you straight, then backtrack to explore the details. It drew more people than a mystery tale. Street writers took the chance to burnish their own. We will explore it ourselves. So please allow these speculations. Haboods good gossips, draw us near these beds of change. Time travelers wander the interstices of flood, come drought, back sleep. Prayers wash labyrinths and rods over eyes. Reiver here, a bend there, shut this window and into thy chamber be gone. Right through the walls you watch. The tales depend from a bowl with a notched rim. Tune to home, no streets or skies, ancient quarries and vaults, tunnel and cavern beneath, one hardly knows how to call such Malmsine strong all the while.
Not to trust puppoets any more than the goats. For instance, if Turk looks hairless in the microfiche why does Susan have hair? And how did those depressions leave footprints so deep in the park when the average Hominoid of 800 pounds only leaves a print an inch deep? Of course 800 and 600 together make 1400, but what’s that, an inch and a half? You’d think shifts in the tectonic plates were at fault, and strangelets, but how many inches down does it need to go to drown a little dog? And what about the report that Detective Lighthouse found a freezer room 8×10? That’s the size of a full panic room! Typos? for in some versions his name is either Cash or Hunt.. Street poets ought to mind the rhume up on 16th street: Ope the packing chest The sausage room to room Hollandy the orm. But Dame Belcher probably did brew a tea the night that Turk got shanked and smoked, which mise en scène Sue would enter too.
Maps and topographies give electrogravitic proofs that this is the most potent gateway. I justifies beliefs of the Dutchman mine and its impartation that Rhine Maidens south made hay bales of these dudes. What a euphemism! Any observer on the 33rd should recall the experience.
As far as we know part of the tale went like this. Three Big Ooks A Girl in a Red Olds Three Bears, Three Pigs, Three Pops
Three Bears, Three Pigs, Three Pops. Dame Belcher, Poppa Pop, GoldiPop, the Guapa. Not to confuse, they are also called OOps. Lots of names apply to what happened along McDowell when things got so bad that Pop ate Pop itself. Imagine it like a soup can open from the brim. GoldiPop drives up in a red car, a convertible Olds flipping its lid with the top down.
Once upon a time there were three Ooks who lived in the
town of Dubity. Turk Ook was the papa,
Mama Ook was the mother, and SueLit baby looked like her dad. Each Ook
ate a bowl of sausage for breakfast with ginger snaps stuck in the
side. If you didn’t count the chickens or the occasional gaseous
emissions they were quiet Ooks, excluding a belch, itself the first sign.
The walls of McDowell. It is our happy fault to share this language with whoever reads even if we don’t know them. These printed broadsides were pasted on old phone booths, written in paint on walls of all kinds. They made spray pictures right out of DeKooning, but to pay the paint bills the artists salvaged auto parts, old and new wood, even books and art for various reconstructions in the trade. This prospered as well as it did because the neighborhoods were still being demoed for good Ikea ware. Vintage 50’s furnishing were everywhere. When he came upon this farrago of folk tales that began to appear in the neighborhoods, sequels of the old whore tales of Van Buren, news of the street in that day was still broadcast on the poles in parts of town.
Not widely known these had many variations. The one called SueMyth of Lit so much diversity that printed and handwritten microfiche litter our desk. The photocopies and graffiti fax the Dutch. And don’t presume prurience is a prude to Simon Real. Nor will we leave him to graze in this yard. Large finger point groups formed requisites along the way like TVs had broke and people went out to play. All the neighbor dudes sold versions. GuapaPop broadsides were pasted like spray words out of DeKooning. But writers have to make a living. Offices and homes had long since built cages around their copper pipes. Car alarms went off like mourning doves for salvage parts before leisure suit of dawn. Prowlers along McDowell speak so fast you need a shorthand to get them down. That jumble saves our embarrassment in misspeaking though, so we call it Dutch. Dat vas vat drew da crowd on walks and phrases like she worked nacht in Die Bowling-Strass renting shoes. The Oop are heroes of street tales. Hero being convolute. Hector was a hero and he went up in smoke. That day Guap came home her car smoked so badly it was mistaken for a volcano. At least that is the word smudged in the fiche, vulka in the missing Dutch, but volcano in Bulgarian for wolf. We bring this world home from the bowling leagues with Sue. She had the front seat of her car removed so she could drive from the back. Not that she was tall, but wide backsides of pulchritude pinched when crowds gathered. Onlookers shook as if the gas of Step Dame redux. Who wouldn’t entertain a moo cow in the road? Éclair Susan was great as a cow and they ate her.
The Poles of Brill
One street pole north on Brill got a little quack-clucked. It read, “mythopoeias reave the sky,” which sounds more like what a thought goat would say, for they too are witnesses, with the pup poets. Goat verses on the wall disputed in clear Dutch. They had begun by asking what any of us expect to learn from our car licenses and oleanders, and progress to question the belches of the pleasant elves. Finally, presume the aqueous, quarreled the discrete envelopment of Greek gin. Turk Musselman, or PoppaPop, had much to answer for this since he published it and publicized it with a flotilla of Party sloops along the Sea of artery lite, popularly know as the Scottsdale border. Susan herself must have known more from the acclaim of all the kindreds gatted up to shout when she pulled home. When Sue Lit jetted up the poles would wave! Largess is flying. It has always ruled our nation from the top. More immigrants are needed. Word went out. Down to the nubbin, out to the bone, more came. So when the smoke roared up from Damer’s chimney there were tales and more. After all, who misses a few immigrants. But who reads the phone poles now?
Where the sun blasts out at 110 and whimsies of amnesia exchange packages of ORM meat in the indoor parlors of freezer rooms, and the sleep of millions grows to 10, nonsense can be an epiphany for a cow. Refugees sought the solace of these tales. Lighthouse Goldilocks would collect more evidence than a murder book could fill for grand juries to violate. Wires and surveillance guard the process. They would lock their teenagers up at night and inject them against viruses not to paint the walls. Stray poles read their tales,
Damer sped unmaking. Freezer humpy blue. Dark moon porch wide open. Pflege! two by two.
To read the docket that night, part licensed by the city, part legit, people eating was edited under the rubric of nonsense compared with murder board interviews and interpretations verbatim. Nobody knows who done it. The quotes are a guess, part known. Burger and fries and body parts were mixed. Lighthouse had an Apollo dictionary at his bed to read to sleep as all the Ubers drifted down the Salt. Earsling. “arse,” ears or ærs, and the suffix –ling, the –long of words headlong, endlong. or in other words backward. dreámcræft. dreámere dreám-hæbbende dreám-healdende dreám-leás dreám-líc dreám-lic dreámnes dreámness dreám-swinsung. Unweder. “un-weather,”storm. Selfaeta. “self-eater” preyed on the same species. Faery. a going, a journey, a way, a road, a passing, a course, a march, a path; where possible a voyage is made – a vessel, carriage, ship, ark; a crew, peril, danger, sudden beauty just-out-of-sight otherworld, færy; a fair, or the gift at a fairing.
2.
A female detective was Boise Boysee, for beauty has to suffer. Donald Donk lived on the canal. Lambri rode to work on a bike. Lighthouse, the tall Netherlandish white dude, had short surfer hair spread out like the aurora of a solar minimum, hence Goldilocks. All along the watchtowers of Sky Harbor detectives had such names. From the airport to the lesser parts, warehouses, pulperias, lumberyards along the banks of the Dust, downtown landfills and squatter camps to the base of the south towers with the chumacca thrived. Explorers of this south, love the centric part and take heavy parts of sarcasm and misspeak along the trails.
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Street writers along McDowell like this one El Ephod use pseudonyms to give news in pole rhymes across town. Many authors dignify Dutch as old as the language of the street so that the El styled himself the Lost Dutchman on his, broadsides on paper, pieces of metal. Our happy circumstance shares this language with him, even if we don’t know. We do not know if he was the one who wrote the debased hiaku:
When in Rome the pole folks wolf
veal and Chicken Claws then down the books.
And open doors for Ooks.
2.
This is the highway right round earth that divides the ley lines north and south. It is the McDowell Getaway where a hundred pieces of Isis yrod the world. Our tale tells how one night THE neighborhoods SOUTh began EATING and that Somewhere in an ice chest the paper flubbed the news.
Who called the police, Sue Miss-ing?
The petrolman filled out his card. His name was Norm on the insurance forms. Next day Dave Lighthouse appeared. Peace had broken out, the result of that night’s alarm.
Step Dame let the Lighthouse in. This was not a warrant investigated crime. She was a Polish governess who might be said to polarize wishes, a strange conjunctivo to admit, but look out Dave! Her favorite month was May. Bold polarities among pantheists, vitalists and transcendentalists, who wing their giddy flights to the dark core, not taking baths, but chummy under pine trees liberate the soul. Neither the neglect of vegetables, nor carrots and squash, or new Wordsworth sitting on his cold grey stone in the vernal wood could disassemble these. The daisies in Plato are another matter. Cups of peppermint grew in pots at the entry next to dark promiscuous sculptured pairs of horses and cows whose heads were set off to the side as if they were milking. Dave gazed into their eyes, which prepared for the tragedy of every comedy along the sylvan way.
He pondered that entry at dawn.
Kn to Q1!
Living room by kitchen, the Gadsden Purchase, dining room eight by ten.
“So they took your pawn?”
“Yes, they did! My daughter’s missing and I don’t know why.
“Have you filed a missing purse report?”
“No sir, She’s gone! After all the trouble I took to get her right! What can I do now?”
Mars, to earth.
There's a crime in the missing purse!
“Can‘em and dry’em, and smoke’m up too, put up proper Lit is for you!”
I discovers it.
“Well, Ma’am, like I said, you file a missing purse report and if it doesn’t turn up in thirty days we can give it to the FFBI.”
“No, no! She’s missing, but not a purse! She’s Susan!” Susan!
Our officer advised a yak.
Mabinogs began to chat, ecstasies raged in their brow like the lights of Arriva
We assay the meaning.
Forgive us saying she vas big. Her chair flirted with a two-story big. Sometimes we have called between the chair and the wall for dialogue to relieve the sagging floor. One of those four hour bariatric lobs to the potato room. But no answer.
The goat gossip zigzags put their lips. You ate Susan & you worry Goat verse? Sing with the wasps this ditty in the now:
♪♪ Ecoplasm Earth ♪♪
♪♪ Ecoplasm Earth ♪♪
♪♪Has taken the very best. ♪♪
Cows of
peace and plenty.
Cows and pines, drum and dance,
If Susan had gone to her nest among the trees that night,
she could wander with Miss Lucy to the moon.
Susan might wander in the moon or as some cows will jump it, but the meaning of her confluence would escape all but the adept in sleep. Cow and moon and their almost unspeakable connection are known with the wisdom of the east handed down from that pineal daughter of the Chaldee who sees Susan plain in her loony light with Atlantis moonings. Not just for the mindless and the primitive for the Orient express this discontent with the here and now.
Susan like a goat or a cow in Swedenborg where the yogi was an early name for cow. These syntheses of the German, O Altitudo, were emotions starved by Darwin in his cities and factories, but Susan had been nude before the Flood. Those happy befallen Atlanteans privileged to exhume her even after the passing egenerate.
The Egyptian Cow, the Hindu cow, the Aztec adepts of Hermes and Herakleitos, Mahatmas Blavatsky, who discover the secrets in their New York lodges, open the gates of the anima, Isis depending. Annie Butler Yeats said as much and Sinnett, friends of the Society where they read the works permitted to smell the spectral incense and hear the astral bells. These bridge the Birkeland gap between myth and symbol and land. Keys to the same cow the fallen angel overturned with convenient symbol and the early poems of mystery were written to this dictation. He had his tail in his mouth from Bolivia to Moscow who believed in metempsycowis, not the first hard experience of these disclosures. Sands of excitement plume the initiate. Concerns that control Houdini, better known as John Kunda, speak of a cow so occult that though it can not be understood until the fourth initiation is universally explored as the female principle of nature. The melodious cow horns veil symbol by cow. The cow like the moon would be impossible to suppose without the star that Mme unveiled, that most occidental bird of the Arab tree complaining that the turtle of our Phoenix was a cow.
But cows don’t eat at night.
3. Web OOps, doc.Woulds
AldrichW@ DewpitPublica
We have followed the case of the Willetta anglers with interest, so called by the patrolmen who work this districk, after the discovery of the recent burglary of illegal Belchafute meat stored there in underground frozen container lockers. Where this contrabrand originated you can be sure to find out here when that is known. For now, the person or persons in custody, one Ms. Dame Oop, is a known author of books and the widow of the New York publisher of Atlantic Books, retired here some years ago but who held ministerial rank among the local embassiers. He promoted Dame’s new SueLit Soups to the New York lists and curated her early Red Mouse Blebel and Dudeney Cow under separate cover. So we introduce this new Web OOp to the Pop crowd who patronize the Belchafutes, where Dame also had a line of Fluorescent hats and spider goats. Other POPTFUTE, or Fusselman Myth so called was lionized by the dad of that famous beauty, SheQ, called Baby Sue in the charts. All Importance Ltd. launched them both.
Of course we are now are in a position to know somewhat more, since Aldrich said that Sue was born from POP before the Dame, at least till Damer ate and things went off. If Sue were taken back to pancreatic dust which the goats spread to Kansas with the goat carts, by bus, well maybe you don’t know this, but they did that when Eighty percent of everything went up. It's not something we talk about. They’re selling a gross of this on eDenial, but don’t expect that will allay the Millennial fears. Dame, Turk, Sue, more fully, Guapa POP, G. Turk Musselman and Guapa Sue in the breach, include the cops.
Brain codes and electro field lasers for true
believers broke the ‘genetic code’ of the human brain more or less from 44
digits that brain had employed with only 22 frequency bands across the whole near
EM spectrum, only 11 of which were independent. Eleven correct channels could
be ‘phase-locked’ to influence thought,
vision, even financial planning." It's a wonder Tesla survived as long or
that the gov did not burn his books with Wilhelm Reich's.
In February 1912 Tesla said he could split the planet with
telegeodynamics,’ the beginning of the
age of Aquarius a month or so early, all vibrations combined. Correct resonance
of earth could control earthquakes: Within a few weeks, he could set the
earth's crust into such a state of vibrations that it would rise and fall
hundreds of feet, throwing rivers out of their beds, wrecking buildings and
practically destroying civilization. Interference cells moving hot and cold
spots to create weather to make the entire jet stream suffer deviations at
will, drawing moisture from the Pacific to collide over the south with extremes
of cold air brought down from Canada would produce ice storms, induce
thunderstorms and with added spin extensive tornadoes, drought, excessive rain
and flooding crops destroyed by severe and unseasonal weather. Good news, his
papers were impounded and given to John Trump.
To get the gist of what this means, the empires of Pop and Sue, that Aldrich searched said Dame stands for Babyon and Turk for Rome, so Baby Sue gabbling lots of chances of history said Ask and isk, gist, geist, ghost:
How can an OOp grow to 800 pounds on a planet without legs?
“What’s the biggest OOp of all?”
Up East, where OOp porridge performs with an even more moonstrous swell, we am waiting and waiting to tell.
This was put in New World Order
Sue Smoke
Just to get the message out, but we have to read it through, tread light among the many branches to offend. This the time to reconsider possible selves, Phoenix physics, computer chips in the heel? You thought it was the head, but it is the heel.
Sound the alarm louder than an attorney breaking. How many came implies a syndicate, the body in installments.
Wagons and trikes backed up to trucks, while round the cold room, fists in closets struck those trees in plywood shorts.
And what did bandits at the massy cold door dawn do? Fffliedersehen!
Bicycles backed up to swarm the frozen dawn.
You go where reflection takes you.
No need to press the panes.
In the master plan, peace and happiness for every man.
How many came?
We’re taking census.
Why were those bandits on Meet the Press?
Fists in closets opened up the bed.
The beef?
Plop!
Cold door!
Plop!
Fast chickens hung on hooks.
Blame housewife and remember John, roast or veal, loin on the claw at hooks.
By compartment! Room.Room.
No, unblame the wife, the roast, the loin on claw or veil.
B & B!
I have no idea what that means. entrained a different sound.
Is she alone who hears what none can say?
There are no passengers or refugees before the fall,
At the Maginot I tell you all.
Come with me now to those thrilling days of yesteryear when Fleezer Humped the Blues. A cool moon shivered on Damer’s porch. Sixty Watt tramped out of the back of Damer’s hutch, smashed that sissy bulb, and Damer swept it up.
Little lines of sportive wood ran wild. Wordsworth stuck the board and cried:
“away, I will no more, this vain travail hath wearied me so sore I am of them
that furthest come behind."
You’d think the glass at least would tinkle a warning.
Pflege! Fliege!
Et tu?
She came down from the footprints of Pegasus
like polar night pierced where the cap poked down.
Hip mama take you winking!
Sue smoke a cloudy dawn!
Sue smoke a cloudy dawn!
The enterprising street writer searches for Susan in all the memorial abattoirs of her acquaintance, memoirs of a growing body where the great religion Sue believes flesh wiser than mind, else how could our Nietz confound whoever flows like milk without impediment of mind. Where has she been when she’s in the trance? Who knows. That’s Sue, not just one problem requiring solution but a road to all her sister cows that engage. Many distinguished betters have had their Susans.
----I was searching microfiche when I knew at first her name was Guap, for in that day she came home and her car smoked out the top. The word smudged in report. It was vulkan! Probably Dutch, meanin volcano. Her other name was Myth. So broad distractions apply. There was so much smoke when she put the pedal down that crowds gathered as if for fire. There was no fire of course, and seriously, there were no sirens, just riots and roosters and smoke from her car.
Dat vas vat drew da crowd on walks As the article said, widows did a big business in directions. Great finger pointing groups fracked along the way. It was as if their TVs broke and the cell towers down, so people went out to entertain. In the midst, if you can picture cans of soup mobs and crowd waving drones, Sue came. Don’t Gawk! You’d done different? Prurience is like this.
So when the neighbor dudes dial up for Giantess Sprout, which is the name of the book they teach of Sue Lit’s at school, I mean, to interpret, la mort de l'auteur, there was a desire for more. This consumption consumes the religious character of this pastoral. What went on in the back yard may be regarded with disapproval but not surprise. Driven to pasture, doomed by nature and circumstance to strange excess and useless struggle, the books of the affairs of Susan had the impatience of a duck, the sensitivity of a cat and the nerves of Europe, Asia and America. Or horribly properly speaking, Lady Ottoline, Lady Cynthia and Dorothy. For Susan was a natural if not inevitable result of the nerves and discontent of these extraordinary refugees. Her origin in nature would find a suitable place among the coal pits where most nights miners and primitive Methodists know the Unknowable on nights who have forgotten all their bones. There was only the one thing to do and they did it. They invented a private religion which always stands or feels like it stands naked for the fire to go through, rather an awful feeling, rushing from the Beyond with the Unknown and with the Infinite which in more suitable times might make us novelists. In this vast shimmering impulse of Susan which waves onwards towards the end, we, like rain drops falling back again into the sea, fall back into the shimmering, a theory of relation, mindlessness and blood, the primitive that believes in the unseen hosts. She doesn’t even know me, gloated knowledge. She doesn’t know I am a gentleman on two feet.
But we leave this primitive plumbing for you spiritual creatures who see something beyond Marie Antoinette with her milk pail. It was in Phoenix we met Susan who ate pumpkins to such excess. Susan among the dances, Susan upon the berm, Susan’s face more than dimples. Look reverent you triple life-sized interstates in Mack trucks boyos, here is a cow and this grass. What better way to enjoy lucidity. Susan a creature of wood cow Crete. Whether in Cambridge or Iceland or dead, Bevo will always be there.
1) Dame Belcher, that Flab Flut,
2) Mr. SolongTurk and
3) all of Ms. Sue.
As aldready debated, Turk ran a flotilla of a hundred Party sloops on the Sea of all who consumed, so he was big time. As far as the relation between Turk and his paramour, demoed objects flew. Mirrors, fountain pens loved each other that much, to perfect the Oedipus couple. He was Sigmund the perfect Wagnerite
Some caveats however
remain. Especially that Turk is a counterfeit made up for the occasion and who
didn’t exist at all, or at least there was no sign of him, no talk of him, so
just make him up figuring there must have been sometime someone, something that
engendered the perps or the perp on the hill. All that about him being a
publisher is just wishful. Publisher of what, spring? The new year? So caveat
emptator elmptor and don’t believe a thing.
Autopsy investigators turned up to see if the legends were true that Turk had
one white ball for testicles. One great white testicle like the moon. This of
course you recognize not so much as being offensive as being untrue since he
not only had no life, being fictional, but advantageously, had no death
therefore no autopsy. As to the legend of the giants, 800 pounds is not so
great any more, even if he with all of that could move about with some ease,
unexpected in a big man, big, being an exaggerate too of the factory where all
these things are impossible. Anyway, it is determined that the legend is true
after all it would be of consequence only if Turk had any male offspring, which
he had not, just the one Susan. So let this tale be laid to rest, because not
only didn’t he have a body, but his body, if he did, was disposed in a most
unsympathetic way.
In the picture of the microfiche Turk looks hairless but Suelit had hair, but I have never been able to figure out why those depressions left by their feet in the park where they stood together should have drowned little dogs.
It also doubts here the presumption that Dave Cash found an 8×10, which may be
a typo. More believable is the confidence that the Dame brewed tea that night
that Sue late entered the mise en scène.
So clouds of smoke that roared up from Damer’s chim were two. She worked nacht in Die Bowling-Strass renting shoes.
What any of us expect to get out of this, car licenses for oleanders,
poetry broadsides for goats, interpretation of the belches of pleasant elves,
appreciation of the aqueous envelopment of gin?
In that world, home from the leagues, came Sue.
As said, she rented bowling schuhe.
We also confirmed that she had had the back of her car removed so she could drive from the front. Her online name was Patina Butts.
As also alrated, kindreds gatted when she pulled up the bone,
I mean when Sue Lit jetted up.
Largess always rules our nation from the top.
But we need more immigrants.
So the Word went up.
Down to nubbin, out to bone, more hope came, and more. Appetite had gone home.
Quack-cluck!
In the article it was artery lite.
Why should a man even try to know a symbolical cow? Why should he have approached her in levity with religious awe, feelings more appropriate to High Mass? And why should this adoring company of readers assist so solemnly at her services.
The modern world, dead and corrupt before it died in vain for earthquake and revolution.
“The creatures outside looked from cow to man, and from man to cow, and from cow to man again; but already it was impossible to say which was which.”
Of course crowds gathered.
Men pinched women and shook with gas as if they were getting redux of that do-piping fruit Step Dame ate.
Who wouldn’t want the moo cow with her stuffing? What went on in the back yard may be regarded with disapproval but not surprise. Susan was a natural result of the discontent of refugees
Éclair Susan was great as a cow, which likened her to wisdom, a private religion which always stands or feels like it stands naked for the fire to go through, rather an awful feeling, rushing.
Perhaps a scribal blunder.
This deep pleasure and profounder fusion were discovered in the polarity of mindlessness that ailed the world symbol of the good. Belief in the blood and FLesh, the milk wiser than both. a creature of emotion answers to the fribbling intervention of the smell of science mind free like the teats of a cow. Futurist, symbolist, nihilist the first great step in undoing. Ursula and countess Ladybird with their sermons on cogwheels,
the horse and its reluctant beast rider, the mare to face the railway crossing, cows, cats, fishes in mystical contemplation of the blossom.
Ursula,
the teat,
Frieda beyond deep
Gudrun chaos of the world.
Nothing is so deep as the way to the four centers of the squeamish.
Tender and unknowable the process of the lumbar ganglion, the sacral and the cervical, the hypogastric and their eightfold polarities.
Ye neighbors were watching Sue, who lived in a building like us. Her hall was a bowling lane. One chair reversed into a ten pin split. For you primitives as believes in unseen hosts, who look outside from cow to man, impossible to say which is which, witnesses reported battles between bold pantheists around whom demoed cups and saucers flew.
She was beloved by all, but when obesity overcame Dame Belcher would consume. And Bill? Verses on the wall disagreed.
Bill had said, “savage mythopoeias reave the sky,” but we think that is what the thought goats texted. Ulrich Friedrich said "Unless we become as cows we shall not give milk,” which goats wrote a book disputing that.
I hope it clears the tale. This poem is from The Gold Goat Book:
Pflege! Fliege!
Damer swept unmaking.
Freezer humped the blue.
Dark moon cool light
open.
porch homeless two by two.
Sixty Watt the back hutch tramped,
that sissy bulb was crushed.
Hedgerows ran around like wild
little lines of joke reviled.
Wordsworth struck his poem on the wall,
"Support
Wood."
You’d think the glass would crack,
or the attorney break out
plywood trees in shorts.
Mama
had belched to Turk about his 800 pounds. When he and Sue pounded down to the
Park their footprints filled with water and drowned the Little Dogs. They did.
Was all this revenge? Ma defended the PupPote rememberment Pups cause. Their
e.eing takes Remains right off an OOp’s floor. Any proverbial meanings to
Remains, PupPote, Park, OOp, are buried in the literature, but it’s a lot to
feed an OOp to an OOps. Turk had been feeding Sue to Dame who was as ravenous
for Sue as she was for the OOp of fame. It boggles the mind that Turk, the
publisher himself, fed and then got ate!
In their warning posted in OOpem, the goats said these things
were digestible, but everyone knows the mess, the gravy, the meat balls on the
wall. The beauty of our OOpistry here is this tale that Turk and Sue tell.
the Three OOps
Once upon a time there were Three OOps that
lived in the town of Dew Dip. Grmm POp was the father, Dame POp was the mother,
and GoldiPOp was the baby who looked like her dad. These POps would share a
bowl of breakfast fat with gingers stuck in the side. If you didn’t count
the chickens or the occasional gaseous emissions they were quiet POps,
excluding of course the first sign.
Dame Mama belched to POp Grmm about his 800 pounds. When they went for a walk
in the park he and GoldiPOp’s footprints filled with water and drowned little
dogs. This made Mama sad. Mama loved her
Pups and the proverbial dismemberment they cause. Pups eat off Dame’s floor,
which is nothing compare to what she ate as well, as all OOps know, I mean
galore. There are no special meanings to PupPote, Park, POps, unless you go
that far. But there you go! OOps! It’s a
lot to feed a OOp. This is being written
about in the big books which Grmm and GoldiLit caused, for that was her name
when they were feeding the Dame.
The second sign of POp is on the passionate side. Mama OOp, Dame Belcher, Guapa
Pop and OOps and OOks have many names to confuse. It is a figure of speech to
say the Dame read GoldiLit and her Dad Grmm, the perveyeroi of POp,
hence its publisher, who had retired
from publishing to write his own fairy tale. Leaving us with the appearance of
a fubsy 800 pound OOp and a 600 pound OOplet. Grmm, you see, had married Guapa
Mama for OOp amour.
Were you that Grmm you longed for your own OOk to publish it. Were you that
Dame you longed to OOk because it gave you something to read, hence the sense
is elastic, if eat means read. Everybody OOked! Little dog PupPotes longed to
be famous in their own OOk. So it was a big huddle when they met for breakfast,
or for lunch with pasties, cooked like Ham on Rye, or for dinner with a modem
in the left and a forkem in the right, TV applied.
Mama OOp living in a gingerbread house with smoke coming out the top is a third
sign. When she fattened up Grmm for the deal and he went up it was as big a
loss to little dogs as it was to OOps, Grmm being the publisher of their
feeding and reading entangled with eating. More proof of this was what PupPotes
in the back seat of Dame’s car, little Schnauzers, a Pomeranian, and a Pifawa
paper, published in the metaverse. You understand that Dame liked to fatten up
what she would read, not her only source howe’er, for she had PupPote.
So what do you read when you read the OOk broadside big as a ham? Clerihews,
anthologized stew? This is the cure for what ails ya. Got indigestion? Drink
milk in your poem. Need a sleep aid, hungry? Roast PupPotem in your home!
GoldiPOp is the beauty cure. She’s a grape of the huge alone. Had you the bone
then the world would be one! One peace, one world, one home! What doesn’t
GoldiPOps cure? That’s her! Where has shelit gone? That’s what we’re here to
show.
The secret came out when the goats tied to Dame OOp’s bumper blabbed. GoldiPOp saw all this action and wisely jumped out the window and escaped for more. The goats published a work on this called OOkem that offered a good warning. Billy was that goat’s name. He worked in the bank. He, Nanny and their kid went abba daba dab on the bumper. All the goats said these things were better rolled with meat ball and gravy. The beauty of OOkistry, which was the title of that goat thought, is the reason we bring these tales up.
Contents The Oops Of Story Told
I.
1. Three OOps
2. The Dame of Guapa POP
3. Guapa Susan
4. Dave Cash
5.Sue Smoke
II. Dave
5. Subfornical Concepts
6. Web OOps
7. The Myth of Lit and Und On Shunt
8. Pupoteum
9. Professor Yum Pot
10. Proceedings of the Mythogoma Society On Appetite
11. OOp Ops
12. OOpio
13. Fairy Tale Fro Gromets
14. POP Head Book
15. Afterword on the Imprints of Und
16. A Note on the Text
17. GUAPA, Guapa, Guapa, Guapa, Guapa Sue
18. Planetary Susan
19. Thought Goats
20. Postscript
.
It also said in the article that this was Tuesday, but don’t be deceived in holding onto your date. Darkness falls away, but that does not make it day. The date was smudged, which routine gradually merges into the neighbors lining all the canals of our city.
Who wouldn’t watch a moo cow in their yard? This one had archetypal trim. Éclair Susan was a Great Cow paradise according to the finches. The oleanders likened her to wisdom. The logical prototype by inference had ear marks in the journey toward spring. What have I done but find them out?
She came down like Rhythmic eclipses, which every gawker thinks of his soup. She came down like a roll of yellow tape, as if a yam were cordoned off, but with sunset arms. If a cow shows up in your dreams you should consider how you are nourishing yourself.
So by reporting the weight of allegory dude, and the measure, Susan stands for fate. Call it a Greatess who disports to sprout the tale. She was big that one. Point two, she loved a paradox. Her demise was cause to consume. As a man returning after long years of absence would wonder if he his wheelbarrow left in a ravine were still there, how could he know? What do you think you’d have done?
Culpability always blames the past. Culpable fasts and inculpable feasts. One person in this crowd had loosed the beast.
You better get going if you want to know, because entering the vision of gold shod desire comes Madam Ms. Dame, the Belcher we shall call, or the Fute as one who married SueLit's dad, that G. Mussel, also called Myth. Well of course he was called Myth. That’s his name! His name is Mister Myth if that puts out the fire. How many myths are on your street? There they eat a bowl of all consumed.
But Susan should not have lived where then she dared. No Tommy puckers dared Danger Mountain, whose nubbin parceled out to plain! Rising from the known in this vast pulse of waves, Susan like rain drops fell back into the sea, They saw largess and loved her. Imefikia wamerika! Word went home. Come to Susan. The plateaus mounted. She is nation! She is woman.
So that, so far, assays the big. The awnings skating from the sky, the fence rows of her house are known. But what of a privacy hedge for Arbor Day, of privet or boxwood, or laurel or azaleas on the moon?
At
one time she could live in a building like you and me among congregants of
pears, pomegranates in moonlit bushels
that awakened alleys. Sometime pundits called her Moll Sally. And sometimes, oh,
that wall that sagged: there was a code violation. The phone rang. That was in
the days when phones couldn't walk about. Those who ate Subsequent Thought Goat
exaggerated that Red Tag into goat yak. We leave such gossip till
Wednesday. Goat yak is not a hybrid known. Finally, that little man sack
behind the Obladee stuck his head out of his ears and murmured abu dee.
His first dispatch, posted from a desk under the old castle where he stayed on Van Buren, was of the little Mars anomaly. What do you hear from earth, Aldrich, do horizons persist with eaves, caves, giant holes and praying towns? Luminous beams inside the Clavius crater worried him, not to speak of the Plato that Canadians know, those violet edges of the sea, first landings in Mare Crisium, spherical luminosities, psychometric radar, completely bald and all unblinking. But Dave Cash wasn't sure of his position in the fairy tale either, whether the tale preceded the actual or the actual the tale. Some flickering bulbs can't decide whether they are on or off. All this is to say that the Dame Oops lived south where, hot shots, Dave would now go.
These necessary diversions are ways of both opening the topic and coping with the boredom.
Shall we dream of equal love for men, women, flower, cow? and their symbolic breasts who made the world safe for cow worship? My quest of Susan through the depths of animism and mindlessness, though puzzling and unprofitable questions confound the bovolatrous man who could not welcome those explorations of the limits of thought. For when the imagination has failed its alchemy and the absurd raw material remains raw and absurd, the meaning and value of the work seem foolish in devotion to the actual cow. The world as bad as the confessor allows, broken under, tore from the roots that clutch, closing barren leaves, the plight of sensitive men becomes worse.
Bergson and Nietzsche fled with the reasonable men of the cows, calling to Wagner and his congregants against the round of a barbarous. The deep of Wagner called to the deep of the perfect Wagnerite social and economic orders to find a cow, not merely the cow of the flesh, nor merely the lost cow of youth, but the image of a strong and wise cow of the mind’s life. I repeat, there is no reason to quarrel with them about cows. These Birkelands are completely realized in their course between the rock of dogma and the mysticism of cow.
The great Fred Nietz thought us all happy cows would dance our rivulets wayward round in beauty born of murmuring sound. Cow poets and chicken fat. That cute little donk, he a mule or a poet? Believe it not we could answer this, but if you wonder why they looked for fire when Susan drove up in their midst, they were all astronomers looking for Mercury to cross the county line, that spark extinguished in sky cold air. Yes it was an astronomer conference in the field to get the best view, that being of course on the McDowell Meridian. They were not waiting for Susan to drive up, they were there to get the distance of the data mile. A nautical mile being 1852 meters, a mean of 1852.3m in a sea mile, or 1,861 meters at the pole but only 1,843 at the Equator, this geographical mile must equal one minute arc of longitude at the Equator, or 1855.4 m for the International (1924) Spheroid,[5] 1855.325 m for the WGS 84 ellipsoid, hence a telegraphic mile rounded to the length of a minute of arc on the Equator, or a data mile is 6,000 feet as approximation, which numbers attached keep appearing.
To explain this and all divagations, cow speech and goat thought revert tongue prospectors to spades and boots, much as if there is some ethic prime of phantasia -inversion suspiciously dovetail the lost Borges years. These shoot situations, instead of bullets and as well come near the thinking moon and even nearer to SueQ. This textgives language rays and universals. What about goats? What about chickens? What about asses? What about pyramids? Detect the word-specific neurals before speech to see if patterns generalize. Once an ass will speak, it will not stop. Chickens also churn their stripes. Wide Eyed– Persistent Stares of mosaic video and auto-track pattern-of-life data from cameras inside the footage area chronograph movements and forensic rewinds of footage to catch the Gorgon Stare. Science and myth are one.
II.
Anybody who regards finding Susan as not only a problem but a symbol has the solution. Take her as a point of departure and go back to what led up. She is a symbol by which the plight of our day is expressed. Follow the road to this cow to encounter her sister cows, for many of the most distinguished have had their Susan, a "family" of monstrous, grotesque and colorful characters. Deal less with Susan than with the road to Susan.
Initially the "protagonists" were thought two-dimensional, and reached the third dimension in a virtual way through 3D modeling program. Theirs is an unhappy existence as toys disfigured, humiliated and corrupted by Pop, seen in this specific case as a shredding and unconscious entity. Very far from the Art of Warhol.
The sculptures of Giacon, only apparently joyous and ironic, are in reality deeply meditative and tragic.
An anti - pop vision makes its way in this path, which Giacon himself explains to us with these words:
I wanted to build a parallel universe of "sick " toys . Sick of what? And why?
My toys are sick of us, like modern martyrs, they suffer our corruption and our malaise, and they look at us with painful air from the sheets of my prints, from my drawings on paper, wondering what ever happened, and why things they went so badly . They are pop characters, and at the same time they are anti-pop, and maybe it was destiny that they came out of two-dimensional drawings to become tangible objects, as if they could not remain confined to such a narrow environment. Becoming objects perhaps lose some of their anxieties, perhaps finding collectors who will take them home and who will love them for what they are, despite what they are. Are you ready to play with new friends?
THE POP WILL EAT HIMSELF
From 12 February to 31 March 2013
Triennale Design Café
Viale Alemagna, 6 - Milan
Info: www.triennale.it
eclectic Padovian cartoonist and designer outline a path that is openly anti-pop
Massimo GIACON (born 1961) &
SUPEREGO (Editor)
LOVE CARROT - The Pop Will Eat Himself Collection A polychrome and gold faience sculpture
in two parts, representing a rabbit with sharp teeth
holding a carrot with wide open eyes. Stamps
of the artist and publisher numbered "7/50".
An earthenware carving in two pieces, representing a
rabbit holding a carot with wide open eyes. Artist's
and producer stamps numbered "7/50". High.
56.5 cm - Width 29 cm -
Prof. 32 cm (Height 22 1/4 in. - Width 11 3/8
in. - Depth 12 5/8 in.)
Tags: Massimo Giacon , The pop will eat himself , Triennale , Milan , anti-pop , comics , ceramic sculptures
The
Giacon pottery is a useful antidote to both the
minimalist design conventions that the repetitiveness of low brow art, with his
characters gently evil and damn painful." With this lapidary phrase
that stands in the press seem to say much: where do you place yourself in all
this, or rather where does all this in your imagination? Obviously we are not
interested in definitions but symbolic contents ... Where is your poetry?
It's in the project itself that The Pop Will Eat Himself. We should make a long speech about the genesis of the title, which like all good titles should also contain the meaning of work. At one time there was a band called The Pop Will Eat Itself, a crossover between electronic, hip hop, rock and metal, that had this beautiful name which I think is very apt for what we are experiencing today with a pop that has no other reference but itself and that by dint of self-be cited now no longer has anything to say. Having changed "it" with "him" is not a mistake but a deliberate variation, because the Pop not see it more as an abstract entity, but as something made of flesh and personality (sometimes malignant).here
We go down to the dock and see a little boat tied up, get in and drift from shore. Soon the evening news, the weather is unfamiliar. The land is a fabrication. The boat moves away. They who talk about it say the image is of Pop is eating pop: That “THE POP WILL EAT HIMSELF” is a foregone conclusion, pop being "the modern pagan deity," says Massimo Giacon, “initially, the characters of the ceramic Superego collection were not designed as ceramic construction, but as sick toys. The ‘sickness’ of toys is given by corruption and human suffering. Massimo, with his objects, wants to represent the negative influence directly expressed in his works. The characters of his ceramics collection are like modern martyrs who wonder what happened and why things are so bad nowadays. The pop objects have shining colors and terrifying expressions.” Massimo Giacon is a protagonist of Italian cartoon bubbles. From Design Design Blog.
These images of consuming and being consumed are analogous to the shore. They exist beneath the levels of consciousness, in art, so are subject to every psychological interpretation to confront the unthinkable. But because it's unthinkable it's outside the empirical, as are OOks. In this pseudo parallel to the way things are going, none of it believable.
It's the same for everyone, including Schneider, who didn't get the true info about his father until the end. Consumers consume pop, consume themselves, their lives, their consciousness.
first domesticated from wild aurochs ox (Bos primigenius) approximately 10,500 years ago
"Wheat seeds first exude a milky substance like sweet corn as they ripen. When the seeds pass the milk stage they can be punctured without oozing. Then the harvest begins. The grains need to harden before they're ready.”
stopping cow-slaughter by groups of vigilantes known as gau-rakshaks
[tinhursay cow goddess of milk] the cow-headed goddess depicted on the ... was considered to be the milk that flowed from the udders of a heavenly cow Hathor is commonly depicted as a cow goddess with horns
Millions of Hindus revere and worship cows. Hinduism is a religion that raises the status of Mother to the level of Goddess. Therefore, the cow is considered a sacred animal, as it provides us life sustaining milk. The cow is seen as a maternal figure, a care taker of her people.
after the burning,
to the step of Step-Dame Momma redux. wouldn’t watch a moo cow in the road? Éclair Susan was great as a cow and she quaked.
Subfornical Concepts
I have done what anthropologists wanted, taken back the native as my own. It admits too much to live the other way. At bus stop and back fence these stories pass as found. Plain speaking embarrasses the text.
Away with those Eskimo, Caribbean divines, myths carried all along. Excavate the Caucasoid within! You will find that primitive thought lost in the forests of homeless scupper, wander while fleeing those scute troglodytes of leather whose shells are an alternate-verse. Folktales are performed at banquets to large quantities of meat.
You cannot mistake the OOk-Orc Planet. Bent to either side for vertical retraction, OOps pop up like prairie dogs, then go globular. That rotation tongue replaced AngleFrank as OOp’s best weapon, a kind of mandibular debasement, which octopus with nether arms spurted ink everywhere. The irony is that antidiuresis and reabsorption of ink back into the terrestrial orifice caused these opposites. Talk about open conflict in podernum man!
The cartilaginous attachments were more complex than either amphibian could stand. Tragedy mounted it at just such a time it was least able to sustain. Twenty two reptilian orders subsumed to four. A carapace surrounded the subdermal. But whether reptile or bird, OOps thispan ancestor argued a fusion of jaw and mandibular arch with a third.
The mandible stemmed from construction of the lower jaw, a cranium displaced from the brain. Examples are not commonly encountered. It expressed in sibilants the Hox code of OOps, affected by the upper lip with pharyngular twists. OOps at this dysfunction originated fearsome writers of anomaly impacted skull and jaw formations. Subdivision into ‘oral’ and literal” dissociates at skull base made it aggregate. Orthognathous vs. prognathous jaw was characteristic of its early relative, Morganucodon, Lamprey.
If you open OOps up you find an everglade of mind.
6.
Dave Cacher The Lighthouse
Dave doesn’t have the prima facie evidence because it’s all been eaten. He has instead to access the published folklore background on line.
Alma mater media hand-picked for their platforms, see 1 Aug, a head taller than the others and burly, talking about bullying and its effects, what to do, but esp. not to bully those who are smaller and weak. I Prayed with him about it, a good big kid reachable. After, talking to a couple, I said THERE WERE HOLES IN THE AIR around him as we talked. Something about interaction. The idea is that if I as an adversary intend to attack you and declares it as 'information in plain sight', it effectively has your consent. We recognize by name and see in media all those hand-picked for their platforms because they possess the characteristics of the subjects who have been successfully indoctrinated and brainwashed by the inherent adversary in control of the matrix beast system.
Heaere here then is ti pure science, no characters, blue men or green, not e’en subterre warriers of comics. That's what we get from the brine where the waters come salty from heaven. We go back down the ages in earth among peoples like the wild, because it comes between and enables our life, oppossibility's the belly of a bear, the belly of a bear, the waves, the sing song sing of the Oracle famous for telling himself the means to know him. The proverb applied to this boast, Latin of the Apollo temples and the Delphi omachines, gnōthi seauton. You want to hear about an oracle, this attractive nosce te ipsum, temet nosce named for their omachines. Oracles were a blank screen which built the architecture of the world. But we explore the primitive origins of this Urk or as we like to call him Ork. You say Oracle who sold themselves the value of telepathy and took external attachments to produce it. AS FAR AS THE ORCS GO THIS DESSICATION WAS INDUCED to improve the dissemination of radar gaps, antennas. There must be a special place for taking metaphor seriously in the transverse sinus cerebral venous thrombosis flickering bulb that can't decide whether it was on or off. All this is to say that the Dame lived south where, hot shots, Dave would now go.
WebOOps
We introduce this wee Web OOp to all Pop crowds that Belch a Fute. For in this day of online tales and everywhere the Humanzee Blebel, the Dudeney Cow and Little Red Mouse, under separate cover of course, SueLit’s dad, I mean T. Fute, the Fusselman Myth, also called Grmm produced. He promoted the new hit Soups, to the top of the New York lists.
Fluorescent hats and spider goats with other endless POP make Zanadu the mind that married But Baby Sue was born from POP before the Dame. To take here back to the pancreatic dust, which the goats took off to Kansas in their carts-- well see-- maybe you don’t know this, but they did--then All Importance launched them both, at least till Damer ate and eighty percent of everything went off. It's not something we can talk about. We’re selling a gross on eDenial, but don’t expect to fuse that fear. Dame, GrmmTurk, Sue, Fute, Belch, more fully, Guapa POP, G. Turk Musselman, Guapa Sue Lit in the breach, include the cops and the frieze.
7. The Myth of Lit and Und on Shunt
To put it plainly, things were going well until the murd. Call it what you will when Lit and Und were killed. Damer showed aesthetic taste, seemed to want them as an oeuvre, a delicate preserve. Yes, frozen they would have stayed, although some metaphysical part to this remains.
When the freezer broke, well, that's too discreet. It was broken into, pillaged, its remains dispersed over town. We are not talking just literal meat. Dragons want the good, not food, gold and all the gold wherein Lit's body was preserved.
Two levels occur. One physical and literal, with murder, meat and thieves. The other metaphysical, where murder by carnal appetite is more like allegory. Once murdered, pandering I guess to lower nature, to boors, literary swells and the personal, Lit's corpse lost truth, whatever. First remains were parceled out on shunt, the web. Multiplied by thinning, increased in space and time, even with gruel the dragon could not survive. Concepts seem to fail. The End. Here's the tale.
In myth, the publishing industry of New York is UND or UndPrint, known as Halfling Talk or sometimes Turk from its weakness for verse. It, or he, would walk the park with that equally obese progeny and protégé LIT. There is a family resemblance.
Guape (a) was her name, but not in the Latin sense. In the Saxon it is gape or galp, “pando (j)aepe.” We call her Guapa Sue. Und and Lit, Talk and Gape together, have many names. Their massive size made huge BICEPHALIC IMPRINTS in the park.
This PARK is language where their footprints swamp and swell, endangering nouns. The imprints made by Und and Lit filled with water and drowned little dogs. These dogs are the PUP-POETS who did not belong to Lit, but even so followed Und, their greatest enemy that endangered them. If little dogs lost make us sad, when we compare that with what happened to Halfling and his Dirk, taking cue from their referents in Und and Gape, we confront our ultimate fear.
UndPrint’s second wife was both carnal appetite and its embodiment. They used to call these emblems. She was the awesome DAME. She certainly could be called a dragon of appetite, though you might think her merely government. She kept the house of Und and Lit, but slaughtered them and stored the first remains.
-Carnal appetite’s pit sides fall in where you stand. Dragon strikes endanger many lives. Why do people stand on shores and look at skies? Why stare at monitors, image in a glass? The pit is apposite an inward search. The beaches, benches are crowded there. But to make the matter short, both Lit and Und were consumed though they nurtured and made hungry appetite itself. This is quite unfair, to quote The Bane, who said, some are made to be victims.
Allegory spells it out, daily UndPrint and darling Lit may look like chickens hung on hooks, but not. Quick hands on boxes down the hooks, but there is no sausage, ham. Only Gorgon.
For all that, more was left of Gape than Talk because Turk was taken full three years before. Und and Lit were broadband soon on Shunt. You see what it means. More late nights, electricity, people thinking they know it all as dragons reproduce.
Exhumed to this inland border, Shunt-conveyed remains of these behemoths kept like mastodons in ice was at first glance right. Science is based on theft. The dung of 10,000 years is more important than thought. You think that’s funny but it’s not. If all that’s left of the past is dung and bone, how important for our next world the victims frozen in Dame’s home. Which made it all more devastating when they were stolen.
Damer thought she could live off them for years, gave no thought to dinner when they were gone. Recycle where you can, dragons. This cavernous lack of planning itself implies appetite might not survive.
Only E pubs on Shunt remained, recombined both torsos into one, distributed as inter-et their own. This was the Dame’s last sustenance. Ironically, Und Halfling Talk was a precursor of this Darjeeling shunt. It is called Darjeeling for that global pressure point. The remains of Und and Lit on Shunt recombined the torsos of Talk and Gape, called Êgenerate.
Recombinant genera of fish and cow we know. What should we call this? Chowder, stew? Dame’s recombinant carnal appetite reconsumed Shunt’s craze: closed loops, solipsists and their troops, that is, the frozen remains. To give it its due.
We inquire further of Talk’s first spouse and wife, because that Dame was his second, whether she married before Halfling Talk is uncertain. She was second but was he her first? We want to get Gape’s mother in on this.
The answers are myth.
We backtrack to what Und was, which tips it. It’s a typo. Und was Un. So Und first married Un and begot Lit.
Could there really be two beginnings that produce another shunt?
Carnal appetite always wants good eats. What did it eat before Lit steaks?
Lit survived three years from New York ’s demise, then was burgled. Had Halfling Talk been appetizer enough we wouldn’t have had to have SueLit on Shunt.
Clearly, carnal appetite knows no bounds. Itself contracted myth, was maw consumed. We do admire how Hrothgar ate and was eaten, but that was before Shunt’s war. Now the Dame, by remote control, can be triggered from afar. Not that that is better than the rest. Remember to say it together:
carnal appetite,
carnal appetite,
carnal appetite
has taken the very best.
Political allegory abides religion. Damer cannibalizing Lit supplants men, who had been doing it. At least many so intimated, but it’s hardly the job of literature to decide. We mirror only what we see. The rest is left behind.
Add to the referents Und, Lit, and Dame, the SHUNT, for all too soon SueLit was parceled out with Print. The thigh bone severed from the knee when Damer’s freezer was broken in.
Dramatis Personae:
UndPrint: The Behemoth in New York .
Guapa Sue Lit: His daughter, Literature.
The Shunt is Inter-et.
Damer is carnal appetite.
The freezer holds bicephalids.
The park is Mother English.
The little dogs, puppoets.
The Key
This plot wrinkled, home burgled, frozen remains parceled over town have given moderns pause before the fridge. Is that allegory or what? In the social science Levi Strauss. These jeans built into urban myth had the effrontery to ascribe our dar-ling Lit.
No, all myths don’t look like Fafnir. He was promoted dragon from being dwarf, so he bettered himself. Nobody compares him to Puff or Damer. All-knowing dragons are pretty innocent. True knowledge is closer to ignorance. We all know that.
Giants are a lot less knowing though, and you can certainly count father and daughter among those, allowing for the encephalic heads. But to who else but Fafnir can we go to think about the unthinkable consumed?
Dragons and giants essentially lead to this, that our ideas are basically myth and we are devouring ourselves as we speak.
In myth’s supposed picture, archetype, the reverse of what’s thought is true. If you think the false is true, true false and the opposite of real is real, like in movies, fiction, life is fairy tale.
That it is before your eyes at all is to the curious and dedicated history of these times just a footnote.
The Argument
UndPrint on the inland border
was an enforcer, had a gun.
SueLit looked like him, but she had hair.
Sidewalks cracked where they stood together.
Depressions of their feet in the park drowned little dogs.
Nobody connected UndPrint¹s disappearance
With Damer¹s purchase of a walk-in freeze.
Presumption credits that the Dame,
UndPrint¹s second spouse,
had too much brew the night
that Und was shanked and smoked.
8. Pupoteum
If we have now assayed the big, taken a chair pole in the vaulted dome, there is still no talk like that one wall to the phone, where goat texting tells Puppotes.
Once when the Giants of Family Und roamed city canyons, those fluffy dudes and ballooning caps bumped up like heads of Rhine gold giant land, pirate children books. You might think them clouds until the beanstalks bump your bed.
We suspect the giants misunderstood their work, that those who fed them would be their food. That’s how they are. Tidy one mess, tie the bibs when they throw up, and after a hot meal clean up stuff. That's where the company of little dogs comes in. Dogs kept by giants don’t fuss, but they are consumed at times like candy bits. Grown from stock which their minions possess, it all comes down to the Mouthful Feeding Anomaly of PuPoets, as said. But the more they eat the bigger giants get, which breeds more imprints of themselves.
The jolly giant is boisterous and huge to squelch and squash a binding. Small acts of compression occur when Professors broker deals between giants and the little tykes. The aim of course, if purpose is abstracted, is make giants visible. This however causes sanitation problems. Distracted from their cleanup of stumps and littered dens, it’s not easy for PuPoets to say what’s not and clean up what is.
Do giants want to appear or not? PuPoets follow imprints to the stalk and chant the not, but squirm in its detection. They seek to make giants show by gravitation, however this is not clear. Pupoets would catch giants in a net like wind, but giants, so-called encephalitic reality, are still invisible in a world of craters like the moon. But gravity is their muse. Wherever there’s a hole they produce a slump to cast this large. The crater impact of “footstumps” calls, O cognentis solipsis. You may think nothing’s there at all, but PuPoets sound the metaverse. We spend a lot of time to analyze this void and verse, how it breeds, its diet, but the roughage of writers keeps it balanced. All this going while we lead ordinary lives amazes only those who know it.
Sky giants and PuPotes are not the only fits. There are hydrocephalic obesities raised on innumerable farms of readers in town where giants force their chickens and cows, readers and thinkers of the day, as we do herds. These pasture in feedlot libraries and slaughterhouse universities. The mind is after all the flesh the monoploid eats. Sure it takes a lot of talk, but as they say in slogans on buildings, “Respect the Mind.” The better cuts of Professor Yum are there, as each discipline grows more. Religious schools and Industry enlarge the dole. Population grows, eleven billion tomorrow. Giants multiply fast and need more herds. Measuring population by the bowl they plead for better crops. The food base grows that slow. There’s a need to colonize. Giants from other planets have been assigned. At least that’s the line. No food is greater than this need.
9. Professor YumPot
I found my neighbor secretly microfichin', which shows how far SueLit had gone. He said:
When our neighborhood sold like lemon plat on fairy tale it came time to pick. The grapefruit turned unusual colors and our block went on alert. We drew straws. Assigned to watch a moo cow guy named Yum I can reveal no more. The names are changed to protect the innocent.
Yum was a professor of religion caught in a lie about vegetables. You think it venial if he doesn't know better, the tomatoes aren't hurt, but if he fibs about the garden what else hides under the surface?
I don't know how the neighborhood turned all professor, art, religion and poetry on one half block. We didn't have any scientists so I tried to fill the bill, gave aloe to botanists but ruined experiments. I'm scared of ruining them all. It is a diatomaceous earth.
Over years we had a friendly competition. He nicknamed his garden Jack Perk. I ordered email lilies from Jorge Borg. Argued out of lima trees, he planted Ricinus vine. Had you been in his kitchen, kibitzed in the breezeway, you'd know. He gave me a Bauhinia. I give him the benefit of the doubt.
Our neighborhood holds the garden principle:
A golden crocus
fills the cup
of ox law
and ranunculus.
Looking out the window now I see butterflies flutter his manganate. Maybe it's a sulfate. What about the brown spots, tags on the citrus? Why does the aqua vitae look weather proof? I should have been suspicious; I thought it was the
mulch.
The choices are simple enough. Get exposed to vagrants rafting the canals by night or kids lingering at bus stops, mariachi music at three AM where the neighbors clean their yards up once a month, or ice cream trucks that play Beethoven's Fifth when the Gold Convention comes.
It ain't Holland.
You think the choices better further out, fine, go ahead and move. We stick with pizza delivery and graffiti here; we live in the cannibal zone.
At one time or other our mayor, governor and sheriff have all blamed the siege of Hezekiah on Babylonian hordes. But this is America not the Andes! You're safe unless there's digging in the yard.
John and Nathan took a warning to strangers when animals disappeared: "Yum'll eat cha." But no one hears.
Local forensics did a stage two check, searched for footprints in soil overturned near walls, checked indigenes and indigents, left these clues:
1. Incidence of street people down? Little changes in ozone tip this off.
2. Door to door salesmen, itinerants down? What do they know we don't?
3. Look out, they said, for aberrant behavior, dogs walking backward, stray limbs on the ground, people drinking irrigation water, grapefruits turning brown, anything out of the norm, city workers who dig the same street over
again.
Finally the non sequitur came when we realized the problem. Moo Cow was eating his students. They went in, but none came out.
Our teenager argued this activity protected, that it was an eating disorder at which we wink. He brought up chaos theory, the genetically predisposed, said victims were willing accomplices. For the sake of science I installed see-through curtains the better so to see. You can take it as a reference if there are problems in your yard. Is there barbecuing? Consider what is known.
J. D. Salinger is a good example. That's his real name. Everybody knows. This grad visited his prof at home. You ever visit your prof at home? For dinner! It hurts to live and let live. I saw J. D. coming down the street, ominously named for body parts, for feet, turning the drive. He parked over by the
neighbors to not call attention, hedged up against the curb. Pretty soon characters began to appear in white socks. Where's it safe to live at these days of spare parts, Kidney Lane?
Great mounds of earth were being moved, pitched in the alley and carted off. Yum was eating by the planet load. But what's under the surface?
One night when he was at dinner I went over to look, took core samples, ran my pencil down the soil, smooth as peanut butter to the top. Gas chromatographs are being done on lemons. Something will turn up.
The suspense was great; then I went over and asked. He didn't deny it all, said he'd done a chapter on the Abenaki, cannibal giants with hearts of ice that lived at the bottoms of canyons. If you want you can get a copy.
10. Proceedings of the Mythogoma Society On Appetite. The Emergent Mythogeme.
Guapa POP reveals how appetite unites people ill with disturbances from dreams. This urban mythogeme explains the growing rate of obesity, but they are not obese from eating.
Guapa psychologies track the affect of dreamers consumed by the oral urge. Teste Basketball and Disappearing Gigaconscious psychologize this hysteria as a bridge to psycho-sexual mind. The Phobias of Eggs turn out to be a large mythogeme, lakes as eggs, oceans as eggs, or as we should say, dreams as eggs. The derangement of calories fueled by antagonistic drives and atomic sprees of eating prove appetite greater even than Undustry.
A second premise in the way we talk about the problem or around it, instead of saying simply that we ate, which is why the science of appetite has this book, cupcakes, pastry and soups, should be taken seriously as appetitic drive substitutes for other behaviors, which Hapsburger showed in his Diet of Regressive Pepsiogen Substitutes, biting, chewing, swallowing of food as oral erosis.
The sexual, social, psychological pattern of this erosis produces fantasy impregnation by food, substitute pregnancy, viz. obesity, the desire of blind vegetative ravening. The Table of Cause in Itself, progresses from gustatory consummations of food to Nutrition of the Unconscious and Increased Gastration. Abnormalities follow. There promise to be several more parts to this series.
Guapo, Guapa, Damer, Turk, SueLit mythogamas of publishing trace the tracks of these dreamers as a bridge to psycho-sexual maturity. Phobias of the mythogeme, lakes as eggs, oceans as eggs, or as we should say, dream egg derangement fueled by atomic sprees of eating, the sexual, social, psychological pattern of erosis impregnated food substitute for pregnancy, viz. obesity and gustatory consummations. Other nutritional abnormalities would follow.
11. OOp Ops
Investigative reporting made these things plain. Clues were found in the shopping carts that circled fires, strewed along the access canals at night. Whole villages were built up cooking meat. After years among driftwood, the neighbors wouldn't talk, so it was up to me. I burgled their houses while they were foraging. Which is how I learned the following.
OOp Ops will downfall Homo sap, take his women underground. People on waterways know it. They infiltrate into yards.
There are OOp Ops in hidden documents, similarities. These are named. But people don't want discussion. Government knows and is afraid. You see analogies. Draw your own conclusions.
The common name of OOp is itself a pun. In the city it is called a wild okk; it is an op in country homes. The cook can be a wild OOp. That's clear.
This beast resembles Homo sap, of Homo OOps you've heard. Two legs, hairy, breeds in open places. Research nears completion. Even considering its inner narture is a problem.
This OOp affronted many people. Detectors at home centers were OOpupted by the beasts themselves. The cultured ask when OOpupucyf began. Read on.
If beasts within, within where we'd like to know, gentle Wagner? Asking atavistically, if they're different from our neighbors, are they different from our friends? Fatal to mistake from either end.
People on waterways know the OOp Op is planning to download Homo sap. There aren't many choices. Either OOp Op is bestial or we are ourselves!
Neighbors dream that monsters with gills
and horny heads steal children along the canals. Project Canal
denied this when revealed. But it explains the acid burns on arms.
Citizens with questions want to know. Shall
we go down canal, defend our homes?
Humanitarians take the OOp Op view. How does it feel to the youth in combat, lied to, told by superiors "oh, it's just a bruise," when a .22 long rifle exits below?
Psychologists reconstruct these dreams with fears, but people are still asked to understand that the OOpian in us is us and we them. Which happens if when shot in the neck, human child beside, acid glands moldering, generals send innocents to their demise? Or are they men?
People ignore slime on banks, troughs, signs where webbed feet climbed. They ignore dreams.
Do not argue the list the OOp Op is making of rumors that occur in the OOp Op taking. These appear in unguarded talk we intend to forestall.
To make the danger clearer we penned a chorus. Go around chanting, "The OOping Awk." It's urgent to break through to mass mind.
Is this confessing it there? We could go around naming. Say hey, maybe you're a OOp Op! It's hard to be wrong. Somebody's one!
Many urge addresses. "Which one is this, this one and this?" Alas that I was born for such a time.
I'm not saying give OOps a chance. I'm saying take our country back. OOp math teaches parts unequal to the whole. Their literature teaches less is more. Easily turned, these attempts define ourselves. Is your experience of more more or is it less? If OOp promises more, don't you just yap and bawl? Isn't that already on cereal packages? But is he him or us? Does it sound like your boss, your brother? That's the problem! Without a label how can anyone know?
Dispelling rumors we probe the piety of this beast, eprimitive in waiting. The OOp is skillful in disguise. It uses protective coloring. It talks like a OOpocrat. It walks like a plebiscite. There's an OOps history, that's plain. There's a fundamental OOps feeling. These people didn't go to school. They swam the Atlantic for krill, are commonly found in library buildings.
OOps aspire to high office. They don't creep on their bellies in the slime. They are not a thing mother got at grocery, teddy or furry fluff. OOps practice, indoctrinate their young to be like us. Dark within, where no man has gone, where blood pounds the fish groggy with plume, OOps flourish, plan and pump out the rhetoric of mastermind.
The OOp thinks it's perfect. Why else would it want your wife? Why does it live in your yard? Veni vidi vinci, in other words, "me man, me." How do you know when a man acting bestially is a man or a OOp acting humane?
A guy from Billings wrote in to ask about his dad. He said, "How do I know if the shrunken head my dad got in Ecuador in the '30s isn't the head of a monkey?" This treasure, this thing is our problem. Have you never suspected the entire cow buried beneath one skull in a garden? I went for proof when I shot my pencil down. It was as soft as peanut butter to the top. No bone was interred. If the bones are thus elusive, to what lengths must these creatures go to preserve their anonymity!
The OOp is burrowing, insinuating, sneaking. Has it a soul? Can it be saved? To these burning questions who answers can give? Homo sap must decide while the OOp is still creeping whether to reach down and engage him in dialogue like Tolstoy. Or is it better to drive him out to waste places, assuming we cannot at this late date eradicate the manster?
Thinking OOpishly may defeat him. Think OOps! Hardly is that wack out when an image troubles my site. Have you seen it too? It is diabolical and cunning, sly and self serving. Does it sound like someone you know?
Is your grammarian an OOp? Will civilization overturn from poultry workers? Taxi drivers? Journalists? Teachers? John McCain? EEk! Have you no pity for a child clutched by an OOp? Would OOps be the vanguard of homogenization, removed difference in interest of ambiguity? Yes, yes, and of course, no to all the above.
OOps are smarter than believed. They can strip your trees with furry
ants, regulate air. Breathe freely now,
the OOp meter is running. Will they not OOp? Let them not breathe!
OOp wokery! Woeful popery! The OOperies are teeming yet not fully known.
Cabalists have it that you will rush down to the pet shop to liberate a pensioner. Will you? If so they have won. Do you approve them umpiring the Major Leagues? Government computers theorize hybrid forms are making other forms, proof that the thing that looks like a thing is another thing and not the thing you think.
Ook Awk, OOk APP, OOp wok, Op Hat. Writers speak of OOp Ops and longsocks, begets of Og and bobbleys, of bogaries, facquis, lopi rotisseries and wacquries! Stone poperies! An egg will look like a gibbous mOOn. If it lOOks like us and talks like us and acts like us. How do we know it ain't?
III.
12. OOpio
In this confusion of myth and fact, when the OOps walked out one evening, I pillaged their beds. Mr. Wolf had continually advised not. He got flustered when he heard: "Trollhagen, VERY UNWOLFLIKE,” he said, “to even go near the OOfs." Pigs bigger than countries mounted the globe. Was there room? All nations figured in this fute-confusing world. They thought to impose a sentence that would end the speaking word, the central premise of the ’OOpio school of Shingon-Shū to Give Pig A Chance. Many POP songs declared it. Wrapped up in pig, which some called it a horse, history was free to 万葉集, that is flarf. The pigs ran a website in man'yōshū Japan on servers that defended their OOpage. A public relations officer called El OOpio disguised this thought as something else, to quote: "OOPLET DOWNLOADs HERE KA-ZAMM! Which, when downloaded, MOOstrous sentences ate themselves fantastically self-consumed. Then came from the eight hundred pound Caucasus Download these utterly mOOstrous appearances which occurred in Sue OOP, pOp OOp, the wOOp OOp and anywhere else word perfect Ops bounded.
Hard as it is to say, an OO cousin, Bing OO, celebrated in his choric Gretyl Strum, sung by Wetzel Hung, the micro chip cousin, a sequel, Und Meta Drang. They ate the trans Germanic OOp. Boil out the nubbin, parcel out the bone. SueLit was real as a pill and dressed as a meal. Does it bother you to be the beauti?
13. Fairy Tale Fro Gromets
Back to the beginning of this Cow Car
drive. The walls of a Box Car Cow confound. Doors widened, foundations
reinforce the two story house, with things inside garaged. Susan escapes the barn. If a car can
ride a bus then why cannot a house have a horse? Half of her slept above,
half below.
The engine was in her lap, room, room.
Across the street a Train whistled out of her mouth. Giants! They are not even trains! In other words, Show me thy chink to blink through with mine eyne! In the barn another corner of the house that sagged. Good mileage, plenty of room and a methane return.. In the yard a little red computer ran up and down blinking. It had Benjamin’s Lost Briefcase lost inside. The station master rang up the caboose. The caboose rang the engineer. It was an OOkio Convergence. Word Ops and all references were after deleted. Kansas was on the way to French camp. The goats would join the rest of us there.
So?
Well, we’re just reporting the fairy tale, dude, the weight and measure of Panda-Sue. Compare her to a cow or car. She's big, but she's Psueda-big if you know you think. Go fig. It’s a disguise to consume unthinkable allegory. What else was there to do? If you call it a Pig or wish for a Skyscraper to imagine Sue with smoke on the walk coming out the top on a cloudy day, imagine anything, barium Prurience coming down. Aluminum down. Yellow tape cordoned off. She could not go on living as she did. Tons were dispersed into the air. Later investigations would have a hard time finding this, had only folklore, had to access the published stories about the background online. The prima facie evidence had all been eaten. They should have checked the maps on this, but no person dared. The President said the Thing was not. So if we say that Sue when out for stew it blows the blooming muffin liners off Hoboken. You should use some Pam.
We say that because when the True Word sticks everybody goes home.
Once upon a time, a pretended Fute that is not what it is. That's a special term, G. Fute’s name being Mythril, thy symbol consumed.
It made one think again of those tucked behind the many boxes at the Ob-La-Dee who said: “Why don’t you just say so we can believe?”
But only if you disbelieve can you believe.
Rams with gunfire went Aabadabadab out their horns.
Little dogs fired back with juvenile arms.
Monkeys tried to reach into Dame’s Bumper hop.
Whoever could should reach the phone, or they’d already called—Say that they weren’t goats or monkeys any more!
Encore!
She drove into town.
She’s gone, she’s gone, when thou knowest this
You goint to get the point that someday you miss.
And one moe-thing the song that they sang in France said this:
Alle – gor – y, jaunty Allegory
Alle - gory, come to purify.
I will pluck a Guap,
I will pluck a Turk,
Pluck a Turk,
make a Moo
pluck a leg,
have a rib,
me the chuck,
you the roast,
him that wants
take the back,
her the front,
allegor, allegot,
O-o-o-oh!
Clicks of the WebOOk are thus o’erstrewn. One hopes these clues lead to save the weeks. By the way, that Snoutzer was from Globe.
Accounts of this differ on Das ist ein Und.
If you trust they're man and myth or man and daughter, don’t judge them by their weight, Dame may be bigger than both, who swallowed the Guap!
The first to doubt this astonishing deportation were the goats of different worlds with their tabrets and pipes and embroidered blue clothes, azure merchants of all sorts.
Further serving microfiche I found in the smudge that it was probably volcano. When she put the pedal down the eruption at dawn was people looked out expecting fire. Mighty chickens stirred their stripes and sang:
Estaban viendo Susan en su bosa,trabajó nachos bolos ventila humo,Porque Un punto digas dedo.Susana crepúsculo saludó. ¿Crees que eres diferente? caje in el camino?
Dudes call it fate when it spouts SueLit.
I lived some years in that Dulce Port myself.
Colonist’s houses were continually burgled there.
Imagine, stealing from a colonist!
Winds blew directly through the stilts where they came down like fissures from encampments by the sea.
Push your fingers together to see what that's worth.
Susan was admired by all.
But who can say her demise was caused?
It was just to consume.
Are not worlds free?
NASA to fuel the pods on Mars?
Even so Dame Belcher married Sue's father, G. Turk M. Then she plied out parcels to the sea.
More came to Susan than got the symbol wrong.
Out on the Danger sea Sue’s father, G. M. Turk, ran the sloops.
Sue looked like him, but she had hair.
Sidewalks snapped like rubber bands.
Holes left by their feet in the park predicted Turk’s disappearance from Damer’s freeze.
It says here that it was 8x10 the night they smoked old Turkey down.
Sure they were nice folks.
But little dogs had disappeared.
Yes, goats wrote about it with the
Unlicensed viral oleanders.
Clouds of smoke chimney.
Never a loud chicken.
Belches quite pleasant in the world.
Home from the bowl, came Sue.
Anthropologists had the front of her car removed so she could drive from the back.
Women were doing what men had been all along
when Step Dame ate the sign!
Do you think this is decay?
Quartering the purple plain?
That eating Susan pays taxes for these permits.
What are you wanting bro?
Provocation and murd.
In the words of Donnte Zoned,
she dared she gone.
“She's gone, she's gone, when thou know this
thou know the swell carcass this world is."
14. POP Head Book
Eyewitness Accounts
I read them on the berm in the yard.
Three goats tied to the bumper of Damer’car.
The biggest was a red ram who went abba daba dabaad.
Damer also kept little singing dogs, but only went abba, abba, a Pomeranian, a Snoutzer and Pifawa paper back original. So the goats outsang the dogs. They wrote books and prawns and proems.
The dogs were known to wag the metaverse until the pop; then goats would pee-opulate the wilderness.
This was one of the great sentence mysteries of the west.
Why would you propose you hide it?
Just be warned.
This story came out but no participants protested.
This story came out but none of the offenders were caught.
Myths
Here’s how it went.
Three Myths gathered in a house in Dew Pit, a Dubity town with a spa and a delightsome mayor.
Guapo Pop was the biggest, then came Step Dame, and then came Baby Sue.
Noli me tangere.
Each myth had a myth with a bowl of porridge that emitted strange gases.
Their belches made you think of the first sign of the book,
1 a ginger snap of tawdry fact, messy and sticky, so we need not accept, so take an application out. This
voyage to the land of cannibists would be set to music in parts.
Guapa Pop
Which, here’s how it goes.
The Dame was Guapa POP.
Her daughter was Sue Lit.
Her husband was a Turk.
2 In the second myth the tune of the daughter reader has a Damer appetite.
She's Absorptive, hungry
consuming as a blog,
and what is in the pantry? Oh no!
Turk the husband intermediary followed this motif, as wait staff to the meal. He put it out for all to see.
Sue of course is the delight of this blab.
We are also writing a book of pastry.
Big Und
Turk had entered from the Big Und half. What is Un-dustry except spelled a U self defined?
I don’t know if that’s really a sign. We can say Ublishing.
Grinding noises fell from his pen.
There’s no delicate way to say Turk made books.
Proverbial dismemberment was the verbiage on Dame’s plate.
It poisoned her brain, the fab of the year, an inchoate Melville, the offense of Crane.
She ate‘em all.
Now you done it, you heard the news.
An 800 pound man with a 600 pound daughter, who lived with that man’s second wife was swallowed amid the remains.
Sue
Pretty Sue worked nights and drove home from renting shoes.
Her ball vented blue. The houses struck like ten pins. Spare Lei lines tugged in her face.
Coming down the alley on the verge of hearing the news
the goal was to throw as close as possible to a small wood cochonnet.
So what do you eat when you eat Sue Lit, broadside big as a ham, clerihews, anthologized stew?
Riposte is a cure my friend.
Sure, drink milk in your poem.
Sure, Roast Poem in your home.
Sue Lit is a beauty cure.
But what doesn’t Sue Lit cure?
She is that huge alone.
Get a piece of the bone and the world will be one.
Where has she gone?
How was it done?
That’s what we’re here to show.
Once upon a time in a lightsoe town with a gingerbread spa smoke poured from Damer’s third chimney. "Count'em," said The Mayor.
3That was the third sign of the book. Three more are coming.
Did you know where Turk went?
Back to Und?
Where did he go?
Up the chimney.
How do you feel?
Results
Turk, the result of Ublishing was a party poop who hadn’t lost his stuff.
He squealed and squelched at his taking off.
But when Turk went up it was a loss to Und and little dogs who seek as the OOps as much to know the trut.
If you think there’s more to this you’re bright. 4
(Sign! Fourth Sign!)
On one hand, when Guapa Pop got fat (she is after all, The Dame!), that and the warning of goats was hard to take.
On the other,
Eating Pop is messy.
Things wind up on the floor.
Little dogs eat digestibles,
PupPoet gossip, hear, hear...!
Now clean up.
Once when all small animals had disappeared, Und had made up a song,
then we all sang a guapa-ing when Sue came home from the leagues.
Crowds gathered and traffic beeped for blocks.
It's no joke when Hotel Damer ate the OOks.
And these are just the ordinary signs. 5
Women doing what men were doing all along, littering the purple plain.
That’s an excuse for eating Sue. OOks! 6
She ate him.
She ate her.
That’s just it.
Pay the rent.
It was that big.
Now he gone you want some Aesop?
“When she’s gone, she's gone,
the moon and the sun,
the stars in the sky,
they know the reason
why she’s gone,
yes, when she’s gone.
Now she’s gone.”
Jack Bommb was in his pickup whistlering all that day:
Remember the time we sneaked into Mom's Westinghouse!
“They took your meat?”
Susan packed in white. Repeat.
Yes sir my Susan’s gone.
They opened up the roaster, defrosted freshened veal.
Remember how our city feared?
Packed in sacks to syndicate, fence wholesale all the day, relay back to pickup,
Yes sir my Susan’s gone.
To grandma’s house we fridge!
Bang! Bang!
Susan of a cloudy day!
They froze her down.
A Westinghouse.
See dim. See quick. Fat sausage arm de ham! It shall stop the noses of passengers.
Step Dame the Vat
The third party ex, Step-Dame Desire, es harder to ascribe.
She wa dat foam where they shall bury Gog.
Herm uncon, she wa dat by-primal urge.
Take a course, find it out.
Gingerbrick.
Gingerbeck!
Look like the H but be the H+ under.
Big Susan lived in Gingerback––Why don’t we know what she do?
Ubermensch uber alles! Can a OOk read? Ooh!
Spinners in spider land, leaders when the chemical plant explodez, wiedersehen gods hooked up to Thorndike, Abimelech loved to think. You don't know what any of this means. “The think, the think,” they chant. Electric drills were clamped against their teeth. Every Jet altered. Fire come down. Ye got to think it out, Pop the whim, wash it out, no immigrant sing. Alloutte Oooh!
But Sue. You know that little place that spins round and where she stops nobody knows? That's Globe babe, the Big Treat, Da Glob, which Genome say, after her shirt declared, SUELIT! Hung down the equator around Entrants stretched. She wore a yellow ribbon. Now take up the characters one by one.
The Characters
In Miss Sue’s Marble Class, Myth was first the publisher, Nuke (NWK), called UND (UndPrint) in funky garb, then recombinant Egenerate would Tote’m!
He got known as Halfling Talk which romance shortened down to T from Turk. T-Turk M was called, as much as from his weakness for Squawk, the verse, written out in Goat. The text says he walked the park with Fute, which rhymes with NWK, superfluous floof not derm, but equally photogenic LIT implied the filial reference building up in the nook ( NWK) as Putpotem.
Also though, the Park symbolizes langa Health, and then we gets to Guapa’s name. In Saxon gape or galp called ShhhG, or Guap Sue, is Continent wifi bubbles with cranial caps to ferret out silent talk, EEGs of intended speech that suction cup a heart, tele-presence snatched live through neural.
Und, Park, Lit, Talk, Gape, Turk and Sue shape the sonic imprint of this giant ground.
A PARK which indentation
swells and footprints swamp with rain, a meta-smear that drowns,
that when depressions fill, unmined the water stands.
Endangered nouns, the dogs of speech,
lick gates of giant Und and drown.
Track PUP-PEDS to the pit below,
the severed head is closer than before.
Industry, obesity follow Und and Lit.
You get sauce and a chance comb.
Little Dogs Lost make sad the book
compared with what may hap to Halfling's Dirk
(change names, protect the innocent, make minds).
Pup Pots form the great cubed furs of Und and Gape
called Gorge.
Graduate, confront thy fear.
She ate, she ate, when thou knowest this…
thou knowest the final appetite that is.
Flagons waving for the minute seem like gubment verse. UndPrint’s wife, that AWESOME DAME.
But Mystery Meth kept house
for Und and Lit,
Step Dame however slaughtered them and stored the first remains.
AWK is the appropriate response to this problem in the Tale.
We ask if it matters, to question
what she did?
She killed the cow and ate Suelit,
both Und and Lit,
that very thing that fed us, Mouse.
Take off epidermis, down the bio-derm.
Down, down the transplant filters rid and free the mind from spellbound boundary livers, hearts and spleen.
They got a second Headless boy without a brain, that is unless we transplant one for fun. Escape, escape prison, escape again. You have a hard time counting all the shells. You get sauce and a chance comb, though Und endangers all.
So call La Belle Dame censorship,
and think her bull pit sides call om upon the World.
Macro Pit is all of Lit consumed.
Rising out the pit, Dragon Strike le dangers many lives.
Hungry appetite in kind. That’s the alloutte behind.
diffugient
diastomate
deponate
delaminate
How dat for feeling pits?
How deep for pits, the
import swalled, prat amnesty fulfilled, maud gonne?
Shunt
SueLit pickled out with Pompey's head of Print was then consumed.
Add to these ingreedients Bob SHUNT,
oblivious from the front, but where came this fleshy man?
Then came the thigh bone severed from the knee that
hung in Damer’s freeze. Down sped the beak, the claw, the jaw!
Daddy UndPrint and Darling Lit may look like
chickens hung from hooks, but hand those boxes down. They took the sausage man.
Ham is ipod, sausage igod, flash is
Gorgon drive.
Of handmaids and their maidens dressed,
less left of Turk than Sue from late
besetting Wii.
Windows swived them down.
I
tell strong bodies Und and Lit went broadband over Shunt.
They dispersed to crowds.
We have to soothe.
Shunt means electric wights and people thinking
to reproduce.
Little ghostlings, shunt-conveyed
ebemouths kept like mastodons in ice. NicedAllegory.
At first that is right out of dungs reported by vice.
You think that’s funny but
it’s not the record in this pot.
If all that’s left but bone on our home world, then Shunt, the genome frozen in Dame’s home was more devastated when it was stole.
Exhumed from freeze that genome thief where inland-border virtual mind got
Shunt Palyatcheed with the evidence gone, Damer probably thought she’d live off
it a thousand years, gave no thought to dinner disappeared.
The motto here inclined is that cavernous lack
of planning implies appetite might not survive.
Ultimate E pub Shunt survived.
Both torsos live. Vispo, lang
po, wii wo, woe fo, combined in one, by Inter-et Alone
distributed IA, AI.
Do you accept the pun? But more.
Inter-oooh!
What remains of Lint combined as
Talk and Gap (to us, old stew), E-GENATE.
So here they come again.
Recombinant genera
of fish and game we know.
But what do we call this redigesting carnal craze,
reconsumed as Shunt’s closed loops,
solipsists and their troops?
Recombinant
Dame?
The frozen remains.
Exactly what
became of NWK’s demise?
Put like this, had
Halfling Talk been half enough we’d not have had SueLit on Shunt.
15. Afterword on the Imprints of Und
This process has been compared to genetically altered animal intelligence Uping, images scanned to virtual fit that cut away the birth. As for the turnip remains, head struck in flesh, that lives in a way. When Lit rolled Poe and engendered Pound, she got old but still had hair, senescent the older she begot, reverse evolution was her po(e)t.
You see why Hydrocephalic Giants in socks book the Great Und sight unseen. In city canyons they breed more imprints of themselves than they can eat. Their minions care for them and tidy up, but see the giants pop.
Invisible giants are social. We use colorants to catch them in a net like wind and squirm from gravitation, but the best sign of tried and true under tracks, those mutant imprints, are the heads whose pallor is a lot like caps. Few encephalapod stalks are tough. Their bone littered dens and besotted hydrophobic bits are cleaned by little dogs.
They eat poets to that end and wit and blurb suffice to make more farms where these can grow. Mouthful Feeding Anomaly consumes them bit by bit. The more they eat the more they get. The question for little dogs is how to make the giants fit.
Giants slay worldwide by encephalitic reality. Footprints on earth are not sole artifacts. If you follow footprints on the moon, you would expect a hole. To cast that hole, produce a slump. At meteor crater, impact space nihil solipsis is twisted out. They’re so big they’re hard to see, surrounding all with folds of metaverse confined while we lead ordinary lives.
Another sign of giants is obesity whose quantities increase from many farms. These consume, for giants feed their cows and thinkers of the day with artificial feed as we do herds. They don’t graze unpastured as they used. In feedlot libraries and slaughterhouse U’s it is perused mind flesh the monoploid eats.
That leaves behind a lot of walking sticks. It takes a sheet to catch the wind. In building down basements respect the mind they say. Better cuts of mind meat too professors of mind consume.
The encephalic Family Und has cousins. Each discipline aids the dole. Science is more active than po(e)ts, religious schools galore and industry on larger scale make the populace grow eight times eleven today, tomorrow. Giants multiply fast, but market too much food, measuring pOp by the feed.
Eat more, eat more, they plead until you pop. The solution is create more markets, make more colonies. Then other planets may be assigned. No food is greater than this need.
Plum-pup sugar tit,
birth squirm squibs,
ask not what to do
with language weaned of Lit.
16. A Note on the Text
This text was left by an author called El Ephod, a pen name no doubt interlineated; glosses and illustrations overwrite the original, which process another treatise beneath is required to describe. The overwriting could not be duplicated here. A fair copy though, traced on first exam, was saved from the cataclysm. The text by El Ephod is threes written over top of each. A treatise would be required to describe the glosses and illustrations of the original. In the words of the author, das ist ein und.
17. Guapa, Guapa, Guapa, Guapa, Guapa Sue
We open this edition of Guapa Sue where no white person dared. On Danger Mountain sorted down, to the nubbin, parceled out! They saw largess and loved her. Word went home. Susan will enable your supernormal power, speech and sight. Guapa-roo!
Therefore I want to tell you once again about the neighbors south of McDowell. Let's be polite, this is no joke, a moocow in the yard. You may know her by her other name that philosophers and scientists read. Susan was that big. She could live in a dormitory like you or me, doors widened, or her chair was a two-story bed. Walls have phones in this world. And phones have ears.
We always mention the goats in their gossiping. A great deal of goat thought has been written down since the ram blew its horn. It couldn’t reach the phone. This is tied to Damer’s little dogs who sang from the car. Readings could be heard down the block. Readings could be heard on Mars! Crowds gathered on the walk to hear about Sue when she came home. Their talk vented paperbacks.
Cow speech, goat thought is that version of ancient tongue known prospecting with spades and boots. As a writer Susan gave the text some rays, language universals, in other words muck men. What about goats? What about chickens? What about asses?
Once an ass begins to speak, it will not stop. Chickens also churn their stripes. Cows are jealous. Fried Nietz thought we all were happy cows. Cows are poets and chickens are fictivists. Is that cute donkey a mule or a poet? Believe it or not we could answer this. Do you wonder why they looked for fire when she drove up in their midst and waved? They were so proud of the fire that Mercury closed both lanes across the county line.
You ate Susan and you think there are problems with Russia?
I'll tell you why they ate her.
Allegory, dude.
Science had a pickle-plasm.
The kindreds gathered at Susan’s curb were not so different from Loki and Wagner, modernist potato sacks. Boxes round the 7-11’s took a view. Peepo storked and Lydia cried.
The only blind mammal is man.
Unless an ass can see the artist in the ass this vulgar cosmos will coerce. There will be commerce together in the fig, Gog rolling nude mosquitoes, and white haired, uncapped samurai.
The ass sees with immunity. But philosophers and scientists, although they think they do, they don't. We're getting up a song to sing, a meing, mooing, mewingmuling.
Eat a mountain, quaff a sphere
without losing market share.
Otra vez, He was a hairless manscaping man who ran an Unlimited Party Sloop along the Scottsdale boards.
Epic is closer to unseen than told.
Scale an inch to these worlds below.
Susan looked like him, but she had hair.
Sidewalks cracked the hood.
They needed scuba lungs.
Equanimity fell like lightening bugs.
Antiphony pricked for truth
the night that Turk got smoked.
Susan left the neighborhood.
Little dogs disappeared, which varies with UV use.
Thought goats, whose shields populated growing piles of ribs, made inscrutable plastrons of cleavage and cups. Ventral branches through the ages began.
There was never a loud chicken without a fabulous admission in Gaseous Hobook.
Into this familiar world where tugboats and fairies got tight, traffic beeped for blocks, and freeways were poured.
Step Dame ate the Musselmans?
Shout cuidado!
Look out for sides of beef,
chicken claws on hooks.
Somebody should write a book.
Was it all packed compartmental,
white where I can’t tell
if it's Proust under veil
or so long in the self-defroster, self veal?
Freezer freezer burning bright.
No place linger winter nights.
Quick hands roust the cold packs.
Up on boxes, down the hooks!
Fat sausages and hams.
Gorgonzola?
Susan rode her wagon, hundreds realized the way!
Guapa Sue drilling cart relays.
Boosting sacks to pickups.
Jetting off.
Some to fence made wholesale all the day.
Others slam the fridge! A girlfriend bang!
Sneak Mom’s Westinghouse.
Sitting there, our paper covered the deed. A decorator's mighty fig. Damer called police next day. En passant would take the Queen in megabites.
Mom sought Susan.
The purveyors thought it a joke.
“What goes east and west
and never stays the same?”
“One, two, three, four
Who’s behind the white door?”
18. Planetary Susan
Poetry and murder will out. That's not exactly the story that crossed the water. Copycats in England value it, attracted by the stillness and the gravity, the Stillstellung of implicit being and power that their vats represent in instruction and the "compulsion to repeat" held open by the belief of their own sublimity, compromising as that sounds. Sublimity, audacity, sheets of purified cellulose steeped in caustic soda, dried, shredded into crumbs, aged in metal containers for 2 to 3 days. Huge vats, thirty, forty feet tall storage tanks, the exact rememberance of Poetic vision. The closer it gets, the more it is away.
Law enforcement swore that Tornado drove the Lei lines. People casually imagine them who come to see Sue at dawn. What news on the greensward? It was a literate opening, viscose fibers manufactured to create the illusion of the world, magnificent state, but without cognition, sacrificed with oil and flour the stuff that makes the world. Three years later Susan was renting balls and shoes at the Lanes while he was busy in retirement. She was inventing shoes. Her balls came home in the day. Susan in velvet.
ebooks were not about reading Sue Lit faux. Did you drink your milk poem? What don’t she cure before total sets in? Sue Lit to ectopods, great Strum Druzen, choral Hanzel, conjunction of tale und murder carried away, dry docked and eating, reading in the menu chock, that moocow is Sue. How now that cow? Say what you eat, broadsides nailed to the plate, what are they clerihews? This cure of the book my friend does not match the outbursts. Gretyl, Pretzel Drang Co-locaticities chant:
if a piece of the bone the wood would be won.
Cured by the ham.
Little scone bones of anthologized cow.
Gradually our contemplation falls unmaking. One adjustment in this figmentum: The alphabet of UND makes a word at the Eat More Market pOp. The buzzard that can’t fly, those markets that do not survive, we may be its figment about which it speculates, as though the role of heavenly and incompressible powers furnished us from investigations we look upon are amazed. Think whimsy as you will, this invisible mountain and plain, river and deer spell to the counterpart of he and the I, that all sayings are as fictions, unreal Whole invisibility is just that unknown.
You will remember my dear Rhinegold the smoke that poured from Dame’s gingerbread house. This tall tale when she and her daughter lived by the canal. We never tire of saying it, they were quiet folks who loved their chickens.
Eyewitness Accounts
Don’t mind the goats or the emotions they say they don’t have. Don’t mind the tree in the yard or the yard man mowing. That goat don’t ask to be a dog, which sums the whole difference between Greece and Egypt.
Both saw what happened in the liquidissimum. Both rendered verdicts, eye witness accounts. They met on the hump that keeps the flood in the yard.
Now that the land of Guapa POP is full they go out and leap like calves released with spontaneous and irresistible being, prognostics of the ancient unseen, traveled to without risking all, and likewise, so far from the present real that it is barely historical, indeed not that, for history turned to myth the supernatural receded fabulous, the archaic, which explains I think our love and interest.
If they speak of that real time and place where imperial courts are apprehended by our senses and the government of heaven attains earth again and we recover them, who does not long for this peace in the midst of war? The relics of this spoken prophetically are heard by one who stakes on the one throw everyting, the one cast of faith beyond to which and in which he forever after lives.
So the long and short of it is that in the world of bowling leagues crowds gathered and danced a guapa-ing. People guaped the Globe. Reproductive abnormalities quarted up the plains.
What’s so hard to accept, the aesthetic inconvenience of celestial beings?
Ai-ai-oo.
Turk, a reverse Santa, agent of Und, who tended the borders of Lit, hadn’t lost his stuff, when he came to a party it got rocked. So when Turk went up, I mean when he went all the way up in the world of OOps, it was a huge loss to dogs, who lost their pools, but on the other hand, in recompense, pOp got fat. There was little warning from the goats, whose language none spoke. If this is offensive we apologize. To comprehend when giants eat the mess, especially if it's in books, all kinds of things fall on the floor. That’s what the pop tart pup rank recorded from goat talk gives a monthly ranking of the best pote goat. By the way, did you know Turk was gone? Hain’t you listening?
It is possible to deny. Better to hear and know and not understand than to hear and understand triplings concurrent with broadcast waves.
Which axiom denies its shortcomings while practicing them.
Those who know the future stay out of the mines.
Colonies themselves were a desired synthesis of experiment. They knew little dogs would salivate at a bell, but not that holes were cut in their cheeks to make them. Findings tainted with sodium made with altered shapes in any direction made grave stones not cut up in loads with a jackhammer.
The eye has this naturalizing quality, it must look and live before it recognizes, especially if it knows the pattern in its mind before the making and during the unmaking. Folds and curves make shadow, constantly recast, which seems to be moving. It depends on point of view, high hopes and dreams, improbable curvilinear figures not quite named.
OOks in OOkem
This is a true story. Dame and Susan came over and sat on the berm. They had a basement in their abode. Guapo, Guapa, Damer, Turk, SueLit turn out to be large mythogemes, like ocean eggs fueled by atomic sprees of eating.
19. Thought Goats
Here is what the Thought Goats said, but they can neither hear or spell too good.
"Ego, Id, Oedipalism, Anima, replaced the fairy folk of the country in the confines of the city. Trolls, brownies, Leprechauns, pookas doff their country costumes for the abstractions of new folklore."
Three ooks lived in Dutibilly.
Turk was the father, Dama was the mother,
and Sue Ook baby looked like her dad.
Each Ook ate a sausage quietly,
excluding the belch.
Ook means passionate desire.
Ma Ook had lot names,
Dame Belcher, Guapa Pop.
When she ate SueLit and her dad,
who retired from publishing
and married Mama for amor,
she was the second Ook
who wrote a mystic tale.
Mama belched at Turk’s 800 pounds
when he and Sue drowned little dogs
in their footprints in the park
where they had gone to PupPote.
Proverbial dismemberment caused Mama’s eeing
when pups ate off her floor.
It’s a lot to feed an Ook to an Ook
as Turk was feeding Sue to Dame!
Part of the recipe,
like big ducks
slaughtered up
boggles the mind, served as remains.
Turk published this
And made her the Ook of fame.
*Special meanings are contained
in PupPote, Park and Ook.
.
Turk longed to ook. Dame longed to ook,
although the sense is different.
Little dog PupPotes longed to be best sellers in Ook.
So this ook wasn’t long
before not just breakfast, but Ham
on Rye, and dinner with TV they cooked,
modem in the left, forkem in the right,
broadside big as ham.
So what do you eat when you eat the ook,
clerihews, anthologized stew?
It’s the cure what ails ya.
Indigestion?
Try milk in your poem.
Sleep aid? Hunger?
Roast PupPotem in your home.
Sue Ook is a beauty cure.
What don’t SueLit cure?
She a grape of the huge alone.
Get a piece of the bone and the world will be one!
One peace, one world, one home!
But where has she gone?
That’s what we’re here to show.
This secret came out when those goats
named Billy,
tied to the Dame’s blue Oldsmobile,
wrote with their Nanny and kids,
abba daba dab on the bumper.
Dame kept PupPotes in the back,
little Schnauzers, Pomeranian and a Pifawa pop.
To sum up,
Ma Ook took a gingerbread house
with smoke coming out the top.
She fattened up
Turk for the kill.
That smoke is a sign of an ook.
When Turk went up it was a loss
to little dogs as much as Ooks,
he being the source of their food.
Why would Dame fatten and kill what made her live?
But when Ms. Ook hungered she just ate PupPote.
There was plenty of Ook in the freezer.
In that warning about Ooks called
Ookem!
the goats said
these things were indigestible.
Everyone knows by now what they are.
With the mess and gravy
the beauty of Ookistry
is that these tales tell all.
What’s an Ook?
I’m not going to tell.
*PupPote-poetry, Park-language
Thought goatten - distinguished from the noun, being the Great Thought Goat itself. The act of putting on it those thoughts and driving it out laden with all the sins of science.
Thoughtgoatten
In a Dante of living moves,
throngs and multitudes,
psyche with greater knowledge
self-reflexed, self served reversed,
eats the flesh of Saturn first.
Eat Saturn. I seen it pass.
Our travelers find a shaggy dog the center of Earth,
embedded in ice, climb down to the waist,
plenty of hair to hold on its sides --
squeeze through the hole
and come to the feet
with their sin.
You’d think they had bedfellows,
that carry their pacts on backs.
The giants of immensity
Who manufacture obesity
bulge the equator and force
the metaverse right in.
Epic is closer than can be told,
More unseen than seen that’s told,
but you must be old.
Scale an inch to the mile below.
Munch a mountain, pony down a drain.
Aquifers need depression to save.
Giant children run where Saturn ate his fear.
Supplanting Societies now eat earth, beware.
Societies need earth for doing.
Eat a mountain, down a river,
pour an atmosphere,
without losing market share.
Movies predict giants of obesity
will manufacture imaginative bonds
and bulge their unseen metaverse
right HERE.
Epic is closer than be told.
Scale an inch in the worlds below.
We have our counterparts in Homer-Jonah,
The little organs with the big
Move between the sun and earth, the liver,
Say our sins are sent to space.
As old Plutarch liked to fig,
"the stars revolve like eyes.'
Working solo, working round, down to Jonah in the fish
we come to cast our sins to save the ship
lest everyone drown.
Jonah in the belly, sins in a grave.
Thought Goatten!
The Ship is the World to save!
PupPotem
“The sensorium of Inferno has begun to constellate more imaginative and more real creatures and being.”
Once the Rhine Gold Giants came
they mistook their work,
thought those who fed them
should be their food.
This was the work of PupPoets
Who tidy one mess up and tie their bibs,
And when they throw up clean up stuff,
offer a hot meal. That’s what little dogs did,
only to be consumed at times like candy bits.
Grown from a stock which these giants possess,
This was the Mouthful Feeding Anomaly
of PupPoets.
A jolly giant is boisterous to squash a binding,
So acts of compression whilom would occur.
Professors of Privileged Relation brokered
deals between giants and the little tykes,
Whose aim of course was to make the giants seen.
But the sanitation problem from cleanup of stumps
and littered dens distracts PupPets,
for how can they say what’s not
and at the same time clean up what is?
PupPoets catch giants in a net like wind,
Giant encephalitic reality,
called O cognentis solipsis,
hidden in dark moon craters,
shows wherever there’s a slump,
that’s a “stump,” to cast as poem.
You may think nothing’s there at all,
but PupPoet its metaverse reveals.
PupPoets follow these imprints to the stalk
Where at the base they chant the not,
if squirm in its detection.
However this reads, the diet composed
roughage of writers keeps it balanced.
But sky giants and PupPoets here below
are not the only puppets.
Hydrocephalic obesities
raised on innumerable farms
where giants force their chickens and cows,
as we do readers in town,
pasture in feedlot libraries
and slaughterhouse universities.
The mind is after all the flesh the *monoploid eats.
Sure it takes a lot of talk,
but as it says on beanpole sprout
“Respect the Mind”
where better cuts of Riddle Yum are grown.
Religious schools and Industry galore
enlarge the dole.
Eight billion today,
eleven billion tomorrow,
the feed base grows too slow.
Giants multiply so fast they need more herds.
Measuring by the food base of Pop-Pote tastes
we need more crops.
Giants from other planets have been assigned.
There’s a need to colonize.
They should never have it so good.
No food is greater than this need.
*giants- 450 feet tall ideas large enough to block the light
whilom-while
monoploid-gene deficient, incomplete replics
craters- fluorescent genes free in the wild for acceptance in Pop mind, jump the bounds.
20. Postscriptem
The
first sign came but none of participants were arrested.
None arrested doesn't mean none suspected. Suspicion is an honor among the
folk, which means that we have to hear it or we don't. Those at the top gossip
that it went like this:
For our second sign, which none have suspected, the titular head of Pop being
the Mme. Dame, so much has been written about herself that the question is
immaterial. While the Voracious read by day, which means scroll, surf, by night
she had a different appetite. Call it sensation, or if you like, a desire to
consume. There is some contradiction between lit and pop, but nobody knows what
happened to the cop.
They had lived in Galveston, Lake Havasu
and HoBooken digesting zwitgeist.
Milk shakes till the Dairy dry.
Pickle nasty.
But no steamed lettuce or pork.
Dinner Not Row Your Boat, but Lines roved Lei-faced.
It was not pretty.
We compare reading to eating in this missal.
We even eat when we read.
Melodies to the rooster crowed in bed.
When her car, it vented blue,
critics swore tornado,
it was Sue.
Pop Heads
Big nose, a little frump? Sue
Lit makes escape. Civilization founded Lit! Sue Lit! Sue Lit, they call. It was
always a question asked about the
cupboards, the niceness and the tea. And finally, how it was done? That we
show. Things are simple and not. If this were a drama we'd wheel in a platter
of POP. That don't stop us. Where did he go? Turkeys can fly in the wild. Turk
flew up a tree to roost. He went up the chimney most. What does that tell? Pass
go, get fat. Fat is maybe not a word. Consuming consumption until you pop,
otherwise the economy does not go up.
This account was furst registered at the Great Soc.
Lit Furst
Many conundrums Confuc lit first with classic talk, but not to bediddle Myth, Guapo stands for Unpublishing. He is the “fadder” of SueLit. She is the poetry myth. They are all Guaps. That much is clear in the bigotry.
You may call what she stands for a byproduct itself. SueLit! That’s unless you think lit comes up from the boot and not down from the hat which, toots, we mean. You can’t have one without the udder. Booty and things all make up the song.
The third part in gigantico step Dame Big Hug, appetite and real desire, harder to ascribe, primal urge, prurient veiled that consumed Sue Lit and her Dad, Big Und. Undad! Big Unddy! Like a palace in Africa made with serious toot. These are questions that Susan Lit brought home to Dame in that gingerbread big house. Why didn’t Sue note what Step had going on?
Sue see was an immigrant from France. She could sing Alloutte. It was a bit of luck. But there’s more there is. She’s from Globe, a little place that spins itself where nobody knows. On its symbolic top is a nacho like a hat, but on the literal Globe genome the T shirt, SUELIT it says, right below:
SUE LIT
Interprets Mythogeme
This more than hinders the more it helps because Round SueLit stretch lines at pumps and underneath in pits. We know the truth, but we better not give it out. On the front was the back and on the back was this poem. It stretched all down her boing.
mythogomists know,
mythogomists past,
reemergent
Mythogeme Net
talk Myth
tall Guapa Myth
advert this
Step Dame
consumed SueLit,
GuapUnd.
Sue’s immigrant
years on Globe,
stacked her chest
with plumes of smoke:
S E L T
U I
Who's to blame? Preverbs poisoned the brain, the flab of the year acclaimed. She ate ‘em. Now you done it. Lit biz not all glam.
Susan worked nights and rented balls and shoes. Then came rubble, empties on the roof, take out, weird eruptions in the tale. Pickles. Not just breakfast. Lunch was major. Ham on Rye, read by schools. Milk shakes till the Dairy dry. Pickle nasty as before. No steamed lettuce or pork. Dinner? You want it. Defer appetite, coup de grace. Turn on appliance. Chang the ditties going left. Row Your Boat, not chanticleeric rooster going to bed.
That left the goats who talked Billy, nannies and their kids, Kinder, Kendall and Don, yule goats tied to Damer’s Buick, the biggest blab the ram. Who went abab blab adab on the bumper. Damer had little dogs who spoke quatrains most. They went abad,
Dame belching the second sign, reader appetite, Voracious tripppling day and night. Read means eat. A nut you most desire. Appetite cracksers. In common consume. Damer, reader, ate Toot Suite. QED Dame appetite. And Dad, publisher of World Books, retired to aulde syne. Turk made books like he lived off the Carib Coast.
Half of her slept above, half below the line.
Her porch was missing. There was a train crossing. Out of her mouth diesels rumbled at night
Susan wa’ da big Cahune.
3/13/15 15,541 words
Generally Sulit means “worth it” or “good deal”, something worth the effort or money you pay for .. saying sulit doesnt mean it is cheap, it means it has value and the value you perceive to receive is more than what you pay for.
What does it mean in English? Here are some phrases that will give you a better insight as to what people are saying when they use the term sulit in the conversation.
ex. Sulit na sulit – Well worth it.. rewards was more than perceived value.
Walang kasing sulit – Nothing like (worth) it.
Sulit ang Palabas – The show was worth it.
Sulit Meals – meals that are worth more than offering.
Hindi sulit – Not worth it, not worth the trouble.
Sulit Ito – This is a good deal, worth it.
Sulit Ditto – Its worth it to stay here. (can be used for hotel, resto or specific location)
Sulit ba? – Is it worth it? Is it a good deal?
Sulit ang shopping – your shopping was worth every centavo.
Sulit na lakad – The trip was worth it.
Sulit and gastos – The expense was worth it.
Sulit ang Byahe – The Travel was worth it.
Sulit and pamasahe – The fare was worth it.
Sulit and Saya – It was so enjoyable.
Sulit ang pagkain – satisfaction for food was well worth it.
This is the previous version, with the two Dave Cache elements added. 2/18/18
The
OOps
Of Story Told
SUSAN
Contents
I.
1. Three OOps
2. The Dame of Guapa POP
3. Guapa Susan
4. Sue Smoke
II.
5. Subfornical Concepts
6. Web OOps
7. The Myth of Lit and Und On Shunt
8. Pupoteum
9. Professor Yum Pot
10. Proceedings of the Mythogoma Society On Appetite
11. OOp Ops
12. OOpio
13. Fairy Tale Fro Gromets
14. POP Head Book
15. Afterword on the Imprints of Und
16. A Note on the Text
17. GUAPA, Guapa, Guapa, Guapa, Guapa Sue
18. Planetary Susan
19. Thought Goats
20. Postscript
1. OOps
Once upon a time there were three OOps that lived
in the town of Dubity.
Turk OOp was the father, Mom OOp was the mother and Sue OOp was the baby who
looked like her dad. At breakfast each morning each OOp took a bowl of sausage
with ginger snaps stuck in the side. If you didn’t count the chickens or the
occasional gaseous emissions they were quiet OOps, a first sign.
The
second sign of OOps is the
passionate desire of Ma OOp. She has lots of names, Dame Belcher, Guapa Pop.
She ate SueLit and her dad, who as we shall say retired from the tale, an 800
pound OOp with a 600 pound OOplet, Turk had married Guapa Mama for OOp amor,
but she was his second oeuvre.
Were you that Turk you longed to OOp. Were you that Dame you longed to OOp, although
the sense was a little nasty when the little dog OOplets, I mean the PupPOOklets
became best sellers in OOps. This spamento wasn’t just a breakfast that they
cooked, but lunch pasties, Ham on Rye,
and dinner with TV and appliance.
Modem
in the left, forkem in the right, what da ya eat when you eat an OOp, broadside
big as ham, clerihews, anthologized stew? It’s a cure for what ails ya. You got
indigestion, hunger? Drink milk in your poem. Sleep deprived, lonely? Roast
PupPotem in your home. SueLit is a beauty cure. What doesn’t SueLit cure? She’s
that grape of the huge alone. With a piece of the bone then the world will be
won! One piece, one world, one home! Susan! Where has she gone? That’s what
we’re here to show.
The secret came out when the goats tied to Dame OOp’s bumper began to blabb.
Billy, along with Nanny and their kids, went abba daba dab. Dame also kept PupPotes in the back seat, little
Schnauzers, a Pomeranian, and a Pifawa paper, and they talked too. Never in the
Metaverse has this been resolved.
Ma OOp in a gingerbread house
with smoke coming out the top fattened up Turk for the kill. That smoke was the
third sign. When Turk went up it was as big a loss to the Little Dogs as it was
to OOps. Turk was the source of their food. Why would Dame fatten up and kill
what she loved? We look for a sign. On the other hand when she hungered she
also ate PupPOOte.
Mama
had belched to Turk about his 800 pounds when he and Sue pounded down to the
Park and their footprints filled with water and drowned the Little Dogs. They
did. Was it revenge? Ma defended the PupPote dismemberment Pups cause. Their
e.eing removes the Remains right off an OOp’s floor. There are no proverbial
meanings to Remains, PupPOOte, Park, OOp, etc, unless… but it’s a lot to feed
an OOp to an OOps. Turk had been feeding Sue to Dame. She was ravenous for Sue
was the OOp of fame. It boggles the mind that Turk, the publisher himself, fed
and then got ate!
In their warning in OOpem, the goats said these things were digestible, but
everyone knows the mess, the gravy, the meat balls on the wall. The beauty of
our OOpistry here is this tale that Turk and Sue caused.
2. Guapa Susan
The neighborhoods
south of McDowell are eating Susan tonight.
This is no joke.
Would you like a nice moo cow coming in your yard? With all the
trimmings? It was logical. Susan was as big as a cow and that likened her.
She worked nights and came home in the day. Her car vented smoke like
a blue tornado. She put the pedal down and erupted from a distance.
Chickens stirred their
stripes. Voices ran like sirens. Crowds gathered on walks. Widows did business
in directions. At dawn you looked out your window for the fire, but the fire
engines never came.
Susan drove in the midst. Arms waved. Voices greeted her coming. Dust
settled. It was Tuesday, which is what routine will do. The neighbors were
watching her. You'd have done different?
The fence rows of that house surrounded Susan who could still live in
a building like you or me. Modifications had been made, doors widened,
foundations reinforced. Her chair was a two-story bed. One wall sagged in the
corner of the floor. The little red phone on the wall was ringing. The phone
was ringing and the goats were gossiping. You ate Susan and think this
an exaggeration?
Science has long proven that earth is a homogenous ecoplasm that
affects everything else.
So?
Allegory, dude.
Susan lived where no white person dared, shortened down to the
nubbin, parceled out by the bone! They saw her largeness and loved her,
mountain and plain. Word went home.
Come to Susan's!
Kindreds gathered. She pulled up to the curb smoking in her car to
appreciative murmurs.
Peepo storked and Lydia
cried.
Men in potato sacks around 7-11's tramped out of their boxes for the
view.
3. The Dame of Guapa Pop
Nobody connected Turk’s disappearance with Dame Belcher’s
purchase of a new walk-in freeze. Presumption credits that the Dame, Turk’s
second spouse, had too much brew the night that Myth got shanked and smoked.
That was three full years before Susan entered the same.
For all that they were nice folks.
Goats
populated piles of debris.
For all that they were quiet folks, never a loud noise
unless you count the chickens or the occasional gaseous emission.
The belches anyway were pleasant, made you think you
lived off Hoboken
where tugboats and ferries echo by night.
Into this world, home from the bowling leagues, came Sue.
She rented balls and shoes. Crowds gathered. Men pinched women and shook hands.
Traffic creeped for blocks.
Her name was Myth.
Her pop was Guapo Myth.
In his life as Turk Musselman he was an all night party
poop who worked along the Scottsdale border. Susan
looked like him, but she had hair.
Sidewalks cracked when they stood together.
Depressions left by their feet in the park drowned little
dogs.
Sue Myth had had the front seat of her car removed so she
could drive from the back. Not that she was tall. She was wide. Blocks on the
pedals enabled her to pump them up and down.
What are you waiting for me to say, that Step Dame ate
the Musselmans?
This is no joke, but odious as all decay that stops a
hole to keep the wind away. Women doing what men had been all along, a sign of
the time, quartering purple mountains, packaging fruited plains.
That’s the excuse for eating Susan? The profit of
developers?
Who pays the taxes, gets permits?
Neighborhoods
are zoned for cannibalism?
Smoke poured from the gingerbread chimney.
She ate Pop Turk.
She ate Sue.
What are you waiting for me to say?
It was a case of provocation and murder.
One day she was there. The next day she's gone.
“She’s
gone, she’s gone, when thou knowest this
thou
knowest the svelte carcass Sue Myth is.”
2.
Sue Myth went her way o’er hill and dale, in wagon and
under arm to the Frigidaires and stewpots of Danger Mountain. That’s all there
is.
The dark moon of January,
cool breezes of light,
porch slivers were quiet,
Susan had not been seen in weeks.
The chickens were as silent as canal ditches.
The homeless drifted home.
Dame Fortune painted on the canvas of unmaking.
Freezer humped a blues.
Sixty Watt tramped out the back of Belcher’s hutch.
That sissy bulb was smashed.
Hedgerows unbelieving ran around.
They
came in through the bathroom window.
Shout cuidado!
You’d think the glass would tinkle a warning, but it was
that new safety glass, no louder in breaking than the fir trees that put their
feet under plywood sheets this summer.
How many came is anybody’s guess.
A syndicate is implied for the body to spread so far.
Wagons and bicycles if not trucks and trains had to have
been backed up.
And what did the bandits do when they came to that
massive barred door, the freezer room running off the entry?
Look out! Look
out!
Go fast, room to room, poke closets and open the cold
door?
Sides of beef and chickens hung from hooks?
Or was it packed in white, labeled by compartment by a Glendale housewife, roast
under veil, loin in the defroster, and veal?
You only see it dimly.
Freezer light’s not bright.
You better see it quickly.
It's no place to linger winter nights.
Quick
hands roust the white packs.
Up on boxes, down the hooks!
Fat sausages or arms?
What hams?
Dread Gorgon!
Susan of the smoke and a cloudy day!
Susan who stood the walk and could have been a ghost.
Hundreds never dreamed to meet their expectations this a way.
Guapa
Susan!
Relays boost to pickups.
Wholesale all the day.
Others rush to grandma’s house.
Bang Susan in ice chest.
Slam a girlfriend’s
fridge.
Sneak her in Mom’s Westinghouse, wrapped as a decorator
might.
White paper covered the deed of the Dame, who called
police for the missing.
Her
freezer was empty and her bead collection was on the floor.
3.
Patrolmen filled out the case card, took figures for
insurance.
Next day, Detective Dave Cash came, with nothing else to
do. Peace had broken out. The result of that night’s initiative?
Step
Dame let him in.
No warrant was needed to investigate a crime.
Living room led to dining, dining room to kitchen, en
passant to freezer, solid eight by ten.
The officer hesitated at entry.
“They took all your meat?”
“Yes, they did! My daughter’s missing and I can’t find my
plates!”
“Have you filed a missing person report?”
“No sir, she’s gone! After all the trouble I took in
getting her right! What can I do now?”
“Well, Ma’am, you can file a missing person report and if
she doesn’t turn up in thirty days we can give her to the FBI.”
“No, no! She’s not missing like that! She’s gone!”
The officer advised Step Dame of her rights.
Alarm spread around our city.
It was
an APB for meat.
Freezers were sought by
mothers seeking Susan.
The purveyors thought it a
joke.
Weathermen puzzled on the
nightly news:
“What goes east and west
and north and south
but never stays the same?”
Children riddled at bus
stops:
“One, two, three, four
Who’s behind the white
door?”
It was the eighth wonder
of the world in a town that already had a delightsome spa.
4. Sue Smoke
Come with me now to those thrilling days of yesteryear when Freezer Humped the Blues and cool moon shivered on the porch, when sixty Watt tramped out of the back of Damer’s hutch smashed, that sissy bulb. Damer swept it up.
Hedgerows drove like wild.
Wordsworth stuck the board and cried: “away, I will no more,
this vain travail hath
wearied me so sore I am of them that furthest come behind."
You’d think at least the glass would tinkle a warning, Pflege! Fliege!
Et tu?
Just to get the message, but we have to read it through, tread light. There are many ways to offend. This is the time to reconsider Babylon, possible branching selves of physics and computer chips in the heel? You thought it was the head, but it was the heel.
Louder than an attorney breaking, those trees in plywood shorts.
How many came implies a syndicate, the body in installments.
Wagons and trikes backed up to trucks, while round the cold room, fists in closets struck.
Sound the alarm.
And what did those bandits at the massy door of frozen dawn? Fffliedersehen!
Bicycles backed up to swarm.
You go where reflection carries beyond.
No need to press the panes.
In the master plan, there is peace and happiness for every man.
How many came?
We’re taking census. for.
What did those bandits on Meet the Press?
Fists in closets opened up the bed.
The beef?
Plop!
Cold door!
Plop!
Fast chickens hung on hooks.
Blame housewife who can’t remember roast or veal, loin on the claw at the Maginot?
By compartment! Room.Room.
Nobody unblame wife, the roast, the loin on claw or veil.
B & B!
entrained a different sound.
Is she alone who hears what none can say?
There are no passengers or refugees before the fall,
I tell you all freezer nosed.
She came down from the footprints of Pegasus
like polar night pierced where the cap poked down.
Hip mama take you winking!
Sue smoke a cloudy dawn!
Sue smoke a cloudy dawn!
2.
[this bolded is taken and put at the start—to be elided here]
Call me Jacob. I was searching microfiche when I knew at first her name was Guap. In that day when she came home her car smoked out the back. This word was smudged in the script, but it was problably vulkan! In the Dutch this meant to read volcano. Her other name was Myth. That is so broad a distinction we may spend our lives encompassing it. This langjuage is called Dutch after that street writer who styled himself the Lost Dutchman and published these scandals on poles in the neighborhoods, broadsides on paper and paint on walls. The news of the street in that day before microfiche and digital. Even with the phones still prevalent in parts of town. More Dutch, she worked nacht in Die Bowling-Strass renting shoes. There was so much smoke when she put the pedal down that crowds gathered as if for a fire. But there was no fire, and seriously, there were no sirens, just riots and smoke from her car.
Dat vas vat drew da crowd on walks, the article said. Widows did a big business in directions. There were large finger pointing groups formed along the way. As if the TVs broke and people went out. But to entertain in the midst, picture on soup cans the arms of mobs and crowd-secret waving gloams. That’s what we mean in Dutch when we said Sue came. And don’t you say Gawk! Prurience is for prudes.
So when the neighbor dudes called up to buy copies of the Giantess Sprout, which is the name of the book Sue Lit wrote at school, la mort de l'auteur, there was a desire for more, which we intend to explore, gladify and adore.
This consumption refers to the three known OOps.
1) Dame Belcher, a Flab Flut,
2) Mr. SolongTurk and
3) all of Ms. Sue Pop.
Kindreds gatted when she pulled up to the bone.
Sue Lit jetted up. The poles were waving.
Largess has always ruled our nation from the top.
We need more immigrants.
Word went up.
Down to nubbin, out to the bone.
More came, and more. Appetite had gone a little quack-clucked!
In the article it said it was late.
Streetwriters give many caveats. For instance, in the microfiche of Turk he looks hairless but Sue had hair. For myself, I have never been able to figure out why those depressions left by their feet in the park when they stood together should have drowned little dogs. The hominoids only leave a print an inch deep and they weigh 800 pounds.
It also gives here this presumption that Dave Cash, a detective in the old Sky Harbor District, found a freezer that was 8×10! The size of a panic
room. That may be a typo. More believable, as if given in confidence even while
in print, Dame brewed tea the night that Turk got shanked and smoked, which mise en scène Sue entered late.
So when those clouds of smoke roared up from Damer’s chimney there were two smokes.
In this world, home from the bowling leagues,
came Sue.
As said, she
rented bowling schuhe.
We confirmed that she had had the front of her car removed so she could drive
from the back.
Sue was not tall, but she was wide.
Of course the crowds gathered.
Men pinched women and shook with gas as if they were getting that Step Dame redux, a sign of do-piping fruit.
Who wouldn’t want the moo cow with her trimming?
Éclair Susan was great as a cow, which likened her to wisdom.
Perhaps that's a scribal blunder.
The neighbors were watching Susan, who lived in a building like us all. Her hall was a bowling lane. One chair reversed into a two-story bed.
She was beloved by all, but when obesity overcame her here came Dame Belcher to consume.
And what were they doing up on Brill? Verses on the wall disagreed. But that is only one street south of McDowell.
On Brill the poles read, “savage mythopoeias reave the sky,” but that is also what the thought goats later texted. Can thought goats read phone poles? That is the world we now cow. As another Dutchy, Ulrich Friedrich said, "Unless we become as cows we shall not give milk.”-- i cried because i can't believe im still eating them! they are my favorite animal ever
The goats wrote a book on that to rival Suelit’s Giantess Sprout which disputes all of that.
I hope the tale is clear. This poem is from The Goat Book:
Pflege! Fliege!
Damer swept unmaking.
Pflege! Fliege!
Freezer humped the blues.
Dark moon light the porch was open.
Pflege!! two by two.
Sixty Watt the back trap hunched
that sissy bulb was smashed.
Fliege ran the joke run wild.
Wordsworth struck the board.
You’d think the sissy glass would crack,
attorney breaking,
plywood trees in shorts.
Hedgerows his "Supported Wood."
To end this little prelude to the rest of our lives, what do any of us expect to get out of it besides car licenses and oleanders?
Shall we learn to interpret the belches of pleasant elves?
Shall we better appreciate the aqueous envelopment of Greek gin?
As related, Turk ran a flotilla of eight hundred Party sloops on the Sea of all who consumed artery lite. end
3.
Somewhere banged an ice chest, but the paper flubbed the news.
Who called the police, Sue Miss-ing?
A petrolman filled out the card. His name was Norm on the insurance forms. Next day Dave Cash detected that peace had broken out, the result of that night’s alarm.
Step Dame let him in. The newspaper called her a Doo wop. There was no warrant.
He pondered the entry at dawn.
Kn to Q1!
Living room by kitchen, dining room eight by ten.
“So they took your meat.”
“Yes, they did! My daughter’s missing and I don’t know why.
Mars, to earth.
There's a crime in the missing purse!
“Have you filed a missing purse report?”
“No sir, She’s gone! After all the trouble I took to get her right! What can I do now?”
Bang.
“Can‘em and dry’em, and smoke’m up too, put up proper Lit is for you!”
I discovers it.
“Well, Ma’am, like I said, you file a missing purse report and if it doesn’t turn up in thirty days we can give it to the FFBI.”
“No, no! She’s a miss, but not a pursue that! She’s Susan!” Susan!
Our officer advised a yak.
Mabinogs began to chat.
We have not assayed the meaning.
Forgive us for saying this but she vas big. Her chair flirted with a two-story big. Sometimes we can call between the wall and the chair for dialogue with the floor. If you fall into one of those better go to the emergency room and leave goat gossip for another time. You ate Susan & you worry about it? Goats and the Universe? Sing with the wasps: this ditty in the know:
♪♪ Ecoplasm Earth ♪♪
♪♪ Ecoplasm Earth ♪♪
4.
OK, I wasn’t really searching microfiche. I made the whole thing up. It was just two fatties on the berm who left dents in the ground. I knew this much, her name was Jane-ga, but I changed it to Guap. She did actually work nights. The red Olds, the car that smoked, that's nothing weird. How it morphed into what later was a fire we hear. There was so much smoke at dawn the crowds.... Many roosters sounded the air.
It also said in the article that this was Tuesday, but don’t be holding on to the date. Not that it was smudged. Sue's routine gradually emerges. The neighbors were watching.
Who wouldn’t watch a moo cow in their yard? This one had all the archetypal trim. Éclair Susan was a Great Cow, Bowleanders likened her to wisdom. There was a logical prototype that by inference had ear marks. What have I done but find them out?
She came down like every gawker thinks of his soup.
She came down like a dawn of yellow tape, a yam cordoned off, but had sunset arms. If a cow shows up in your dreams you should consider how you are nourishing yourself.
So by reporting the weight of allegory dude, and measure, Susan stands for fate. Call it a Greatess who disports the tale. She was that big, point one. Point two, she loved a paradox. Her demise was cause to consume. As a man returning after long years of absence would wonder how he could not know. What do you think you’d have done?
Culpability always blames the past. Culpable fasts and inculpable feasts. One person in this crowd has loosed the beast.
You better get going then if you know how, because entering the vision next, as desire, comes Ms. Dame, the Belcher we call her, or the Fute, the one who married SueLit's dad, G. Mussel, called Myth. Well of course he was called Myth, that’s his name! There they ate a symbol of all who consumed. to relieve the sagging
But Susan should not have lived where she did. No white person ever dared on Danger Mountain. The nubbin parceled out to plain! They saw largess and loved her. Imefikia wamerika! Word went home. Come to Susan. She is nation! She is woman.
So that, so far, assays the big. The fence rows of her house are known. A privacy hedge for Arbor Day, privet or boxwood. At one time she could live in a building like you and me. Sometime pundits called her Moll Sally. And oh, that wall that sagged: a code violation. The phone rang. That was in the days when phones couldn't walk about. Those who ate Subsequent Thought Goat have exaggerated that into goat yak. We leave such gossip till Wednesday. The goat yak is a hybrid not yet known. Finally, little man sacks behind the Obladee stuck heads out of cars and murmured abu dee.
II.
5. Subfornical Concepts
I have done what anthropologists wanted, taken back the native as my own. It admits too much to live the other way. At bus stop and back fence these stories pass as found. Plain speaking
6. WebOOp
It is with pleasure we introduce this wee Web OOp to the Pop crowd that Belched a Fute. In this day fairy tales exist online and everywhere. Our Dame curated this show at the Whitney in the early Red Mouse, Humanzee Blebel and the Dudeney Cow, under separate cover. Fluorescent hats and spider goats with other endless POP were the Zanadu that married SueLit’s dad::T. Fute Fusselman Myth so called. He promoted Dame’s new hit, SueLit Soups, to the top of New York charts. But Baby Sue was born from POP before the Dame. If Sue were taken to be the pancreatic dust which the goats went off to Kansas in the carts to see, well maybe you don’t know this, but they did. That All Importance launched them both, at least till Damer ate and things went off. Eighty percent of everything went off. It's not something we talk about. We’re selling a gross on eDenial, but don’t expect to fuse that fear. Dame, Turk, Sue, Fute, Belch, more fully, Guapa POP, G. Turk M[F]usselman, Guapa Sue Lit in the breach, include the cops and the frieze.
To get the gist of empires Pop, Dame and Sue, I did a search where Dame stands for Babylon and Turk for Rome, thus when Baby Sue came gabbling...they United! Lots of chances in history look back. Ask and ask, gist and ghost:
How can an OOp grow to 800 pounds on a planet without legs? Answer, there are three sizes.
“Who’s the biggest OOp of all?”
A chorus of wolves along the canals saved that song for the end. You can go there now or let suspense build.
Up East, OOp porridge comes with a moonstrous swell. I am waiting and waiting to tell.
Dave Cacher The Lighthouse
Dave doesn’t have the prima facie evidence because it’s all been eaten. He has instead to access the published folklore background on line.
Alma mater media hand-picked for their platforms, see 1 Aug, a head taller than the others and burly, talking about bullying and its effects, what to do, but esp. not to bully those who are smaller and weak. I Prayed with him about it, a good big kid reachable. After, talking to a couple, I said THERE WERE HOLES IN THE AIR around him as we talked. Something about interaction. The idea is that if I as an adversary intend to attack you and declare it as 'information in plain sight', it effectively has your consent. We recognize by name and see in media all those hand-picked for their platforms because they possess the characteristics of the subjects who have been successfully indoctrinated and brainwashed by the inherent adversary in control of the matrix beast system.
Heaere here then is ti pure science, no characters, blue men or green, not e’en subterre warriers of comics. That's what we get from the brine where the waters come salty from heaven. We go back down the ages in earth among peoples like the wild, because it comes between and enables our life, oppossibility's the belly of a bear, the belly of a bear, the waves, the sing song sing of the Oracle famous for telling himself the means to know him. The proverb applied to this boast, Latin of the Apollo temples and the Delphi omachines, gnōthi seauton. You want to hear about an oracle, this attractive nosce te ipsum, temet nosce named for their omachines. Oracles were a blank screen which built the architecture of the world. But we explore the primitive origins of this Urk or as we like to call him Ork. You say Oracle who sold themselves the value of telepathy and took external attachments to produce it. AS FAR AS THE ORCS GO THIS DESSICATION WAS INDUCED to improve the dissemination of radar gaps, antennas. There must be a special place for taking metaphor seriously in the transverse sinus cerebral venous thrombosis
There is little to choose in the Cannabinol Zone.
III.
12. OOpio
In this confusion of myth and fact, when the OOps walked out one evening, I pillaged their beds. Mr. Wolf had continually advised not. He got flustered when he heard: "Trollhagen, VERY UNWOLFLIKE,” he said, “to even go near the OOfs." Pigs bigger than countries mounted the globe. Was there room? All nations figured in this fute-confusing world. They thought to impose a sentence that would end the speaking word, the central premise of the ’OOpio school of Shingon-Shū to Give Pig A Chance. Many POP songs declared it. Wrapped up in pig, which some called it a horse, history was free to 万葉集, that is flarf. The pigs ran a website in man'yōshū Japan on servers that defended their OOpage. A public relations officer called El OOpio disguised this thought as something else, to quote: "OOPLET DOWNLOADs HERE KA-ZAMM! Which, when downloaded, MOOstrous sentences ate themselves fantastically self-consumed. Then came from the eight hundred pound Caucasus Download these utterly mOOstrous appearances which occurred in Sue OOP, pOp OOp, the wOOp OOp and anywhere else word perfect Ops bounded.
Hard as it is to say, an OO cousin, Bing OO, celebrated in his choric Gretyl Strum, sung by Wetzel Hung, the micro chip cousin, a sequel, Und Meta Drang. They ate the trans Germanic OOp. Boil out the nubbin, parcel out the bone. SueLit was real as a pill and dressed as a meal. Does it bother you to be the beauti?
13. Fairy Tale Fro Gromets
Well, we’re just reporting the fairy
tale, dude, the weight and measure of Panda-Sue. Compare her to a cow or car.
She's big, but she's Psueda-big if you know you think. Go fig. It’s a disguise to consume
unthinkable allegory. What
else was there to do? If you call it a Pig
or wish for a Skyscraper to imagine Sue with smoke on the walk coming out the
top on a cloudy day, imagine anything, barium Prurience coming down. Aluminum
down. Yellow tape cordoned off. She could not go on living as she
did. Tons were dispersed into the air. Later investigations would have a hard
time finding this, had only folklore, had to access the published stories about
the background online. The prima facie evidence had all been eaten. They should
have checked the maps on this, but no person dared. The President said the
Thing was not. So if we say that Sue when out for stew it blows the blooming
muffin liners off Hoboken. You should use some Pam.
We say that because when the True Word sticks everybody goes home.
Once upon a time, a pretended Fute that is not what it is. That's a special term, G. Fute’s name being Mythril, thy symbol consumed.
It made one think again of those tucked behind the many boxes at the Ob-La-Dee who said: “Why don’t you just say so we can believe?”
But only if you disbelieve can you believe.
Rams with gunfire went Aabadabadab out their horns.
Little dogs fired back with juvenile arms.
Monkeys tried to reach into Dame’s Bumper hop.
Whoever could should reach the phone, or they’d already called—Say that they weren’t goats or monkeys any more!
Encore!
She drove into town.
She’s gone, she’s gone, when thou knowest this
You goint to get the point that someday you miss.
And one moe-thing the song that they sang in France said this:
Alle – gor – y, jaunty Allegory
Alle - gory, come to purify.
I will pluck a Guap,
I will pluck a Turk,
Pluck a Turk,
make a Moo
pluck a leg,
have a rib,
me the chuck,
you the roast,
him that wants
take the back,
her the front,
allegor, allegot,
O-o-o-oh!
Clicks of the WebOOk are thus o’erstrewn. One hopes these clues lead to save the weeks. By the way, that Snoutzer was from Globe.
Back to the beginning of this Cow Car drive. The walls of a Box Car Cow will confound. Doors widened, foundations reinforce the two story house, with things inside garaged. Susan escapes the barn. If a car can ride a bus then why cannot a house have a horse? Half of her slept above, half below.
The engine was in her lap, room, room.
Across the street a Train whistled out of her mouth. Giants! They are not even trains! In other words, Show me thy chink to blink through with mine eyne! In the barn another corner of the house that sagged. Good mileage, plenty of room and a methane return.. In the yard a little red computer ran up and down blinking. It had Benjamin’s Lost Briefcase lost inside. The station master rang up the caboose. The caboose rang the engineer. It was an OOkio Convergence. Word Ops and all references were after deleted. Kansas was on the way to French camp. The goats would join the rest of us there.
So?
Accounts of this differ on Das ist ein Und.
If you trust they're man and myth or man and daughter, don’t budge them by their weight, Dame may be bigger than both, who swallowed the Guap!
The first to doubt this astonishing deportation were the goats of different worlds with their tabrets and pipes and embroidered blue clothes, azure merchants of all sorts.
Further serving microfiche I found in the smudge that it was probably volcano. When she put the pedal down the eruption at dawn was people looked out expecting fire. Mighty chickens stirred their stripes and sang:
Estaban viendo Susan en su bosa,trabajó nachos bolos ventila humo,Porque Un punto digas dedo.Susana crepúsculo saludó. ¿Crees que eres diferente? caje in el camino?
Dudes call it fate when it spouts SueLit.
I lived some years in that Dulce Port myself.
Colonist’s houses were continually burgled there.
Imagine, stealing from a colonist!
Winds blew directly through the stilts where they came down like fissures from encampments by the sea.
Push your fingers together to see what that's worth.
Susan was admired by all.
But who can say her demise was caused?
It was just to consume.
Are not worlds free?
NASA to fuel the pods on Mars?
Even so Dame Belcher married Sue's father, G. Turk M. Then she plied out parcels to the sea.
More came to Susan than got the symbol wrong.
Out on the Danger sea Sue’s father, G. M. Turk, ran the sloops.
Sue looked like him, but she had hair.
Sidewalks snapped like rubber bands.
Holes left by their feet in the park predicted Turk’s disappearance from Damer’s freeze.
It says here that it was 8x10 the night they smoked old Turkey down.
Sure they were nice folks.
But little dogs had disappeared.
Yes, goats wrote about it with the
Unlicensed viral oleanders.
Clouds of smoke chimney.
Never a loud chicken.
Belches quite pleasant in the world.
Home from the bowl, came Sue.
Anthropologists had the front of her car removed so she could drive from the back.
Women were doing what men had been all along
when Step Dame ate the sign!
Do you think this is decay?
Quartering the purple plain?
That eating Susan pays taxes for these permits.
What are you wanting bro?
Provocation and murd.
In the words of Donnte Zoned,
she dared she gone.
“She's gone, she's gone, when thou know this
thou know the swell carcass this world is."
In pied cow from here to p. 186
POP Head Book
Myths
Here’s how it went.
Three Myths gathered in a house in Dew Pit, a Pied Cow town with a spa and a delightsome mayor.
Guapo Pop was the biggest, then came Step Dame, and then came Baby Sue.
Noli me tangere.
Each myth had a myth with a bowl of porridge that emitted strange gases.
Their belches made you think of the first sign of the book,
Eyewitness Accounts
I read them on the berm in the yard.
Three goats tied to the bumper of Damer’car.
The biggest was a red ram who went abba daba dabaad.
Damer also kept little singing dogs, who only went abba, abba, a Pomeranian, a Snoutzer and Pifawa paper back original. So the goats outsang the dogs. They wrote books and prawns and proems.
The dogs were known to wag the metaverse until the pop; then goats would pee-opulate the wilderness.
This was one of the great sentence mysteries of the west.
Why would you propose to hide it?
Just be warned.
This story came out but no participants protested.
This story came out but none of the offenders were caught.
1 a ginger snap of tawdry fact, messy and sticky we need not accept, so take an application out. This
voyage to the land of cannibists would be set to music in parts.
Guapa Pop
Which, here’s how it goes.
The Dame was Guapa POP.
Her daughter was Sue Lit.
Her husband was a Turk.
2 In the second myth the tune of the daughter reader has a Damer bea.
She's Absorptive, hungry
consuming as a blog,
and what is in the pantry? Oh no!
Turk the husband intermediary followed this motif as wait staff would a meal. He put it out for all to see.
Sue of course is the delight of all this blab.
We are also writing a book of pastry.
Big Und
Turk had entered from the Big Und half. What is Un-dustry except a U spelled self defined?
I don’t know if that’s really a sign. We can say Ublishing.
Grinding noises fell from his pen.
There’s no delicate way to say Turk made books.
Proverbial dismemberment was the verbiage on Dame’s plate.
It poisoned her brain, the fab of the year, an inchoate Melville, the offense of Crane.
She ate‘em all.
Now you done it, you heard the news.
An 800 pound man with a 600 pound daughter, who lived with that man’s second wife was swallowed amid the remains.
Sue
Pretty Sue worked nights and drove home from renting shoes.
Her ball was blue. The houses struck like ten pins. Spare Lei lines tugged in her face.
Coming down the alley on the verge of hearing the news
the goal was to throw as close as possible to a small wood cochonnet.
Which is wha you say when you eat Sue Lit, broadside big as a ham, clerihews, anthologized stew?
Riposte is a cure my friend.
Sure, drink milk in your poem.
Sure, Roast Poem in your home.
Sue Lit is a beauty cure.
But what doesn’t Sue Lit cure?
She is that huge alone.
Get a piece of the bone and the world will be one.
Where has she gone?
How was it done?
That’s what we’re here to show.
Once upon a time in a lightsome town with a gingerbread spa and a mayor, smoke poured from Damer’s third chimney. "Count'em," said The Mayor.
3That was the third sign of the book. Three more are coming.
Did you know where Turk went?
Back to Und?
Where did he go?
Up the chimney.
How do you feel? Said the man at the door.
Results
Turk was the result of Ublishing a party poop who hadn’t lost his stuff.
He squealed and squelched at his taking off.
But when Turk went up it was a loss to Und and little dogs who seek the OOps as much to know the trut.
If you think there’s more to this you’re bright. 4
(Sign! Fourth Sign!)
On one hand, when Guapa Pop got fat (she is after all, The Dame!), that and the warning of the goats was hard to take.
On the other hand
Eating Pop is messy.
Things wind up on the floor.
Little dogs eat digestibles,
PupPoet gossip, hear, hear...!
Now clean up.
Once upon a timewhen all small animals had disappeared, Und made up a song,
then we all sang a guapa-ing when Sue came home from the leagues.
Crowds gathered and traffic beeped for blocks.
It's no joke when Hotel Damer ate the OOks.
And these are just the ordinary signs. 5
Women doing what men were doing all along, littering the purple plain, quarting up the plain.
That’s an excuse for eating Sue? OOks! 6
She ate him.
She ate her.
That’s just it.
You pay the rent. Say what you think.
It was that big.
Now he’s gone you want to hear some Aesop?
“When she’s gone, she's gone,
the moon and the sun,
the stars in the sky,
they know the reason
why she’s gone,
yes, when she’s gone.
Now she’s gone.”
At that time Jack Bommb was in his pickup was whistlering all the day:
Another time we sneaked into Mom's Westinghouse!
“They took your meat?”
Susan packed in white. Repeat.Raiding the refrigerator.
Yes sir my Susan’s gone.
They opened up the roaster, defrosted freshened veal.
Remember how our city feared?
Packed in sacks to syndicate, fence wholesale all the day, relay back to pickup,
Yes sir my Susan’s gone.
To grandma’s house we fridge!
Bang! Bang!
Susan of a cloudy day!
They froze her down.
A Westinghouse.
See dim. See quick. Fat sausage arm de ham! It shall stop the noses of passengers.
Step Dame the Vat
The third party ex, Step-Dame Desire, es harder to ascribe.
She wa dat foam where they shall bury Gog.
uncon, she wa dat by-primal urge.
Take a course, find it out. Herman, Hermon on the wall.
Gingerbrick.
Gingerbeck!
Look like the H but be the H+ under it.
Big Susan lived in Gingerback––Why don’t we know what she is at?
Can a OOk read? Ooh! Ubermensch uber alles!
Spinners in spider land lead when the chemical plant explodez, wiedersehen gods hooked up to Thorndike, Abimelech loved to think. You don't know what any of this means. “Then think, they think,” they chant. Electric drills were clamped against their teeth. Every Jet altered. Fire come down. Ye got to think it out, Pop Whim, wash it out, no immigrant sing. Oooh!
But Sue. You know that each little place that spins round will stop nobody knows? That's the Globe babe, the Big Treat, Da Glob, which Genome say, is under her shirt declared, SUELIT! Hung down the equator around where Entrants stretched. SueLit wore a yellow ribbon. Now take up the characters one by one.
The Characters
In Miss Sue’s Marble Class, Myth was first the publisher, Nuke (NWK) was called UND (UndPrint) in funky garb, then he was called recombinant Egenerate Tote’m!
He also got known as Halfling Talk which romance shortened down to T from Turk. T-Turk was called, as much from his weakness for Squawk, the verse, written out in Goat. The text says he walked the park with Fute, which rhymes with NWK, superfluous floof not derm, but equally photogenic LIT implied the filial reference building up in the nook ( NWK) Putpotem.
Also though, the Park symbolizes langa Health, and then we gets to Guapa’s name. In Saxon gape or galp called ShhhG, or Guap Sue, is Continent wifi bubbles with cranial caps to ferret out silent talk, EEGs of intended speech that suction cup a heart, tele-presence snatched live through neural.
Und, Park, Lit, Talk, Gape, Turk and Sue shape the sonic imprint of this giant ground.
A PARK which
indentation swells and footprints swamp with rain, isa meta-smear that drowns,
for when depressions fill, unmined endangered nouns in water stands., the dogs
of speech,
lick gates of giant Und and drown.
Track PUP-PEDS to the pit below,
the severed head is closer than before.
Industry, obesity follow Und and Lit.
You get sauce and a chance comb.
Little Dogs Lost make the book sad
compared with what may hap to Halfling's Dirk
(change names, protect the innocent, make minds).
Pup Pots form the great cubed furs of Und and Gape
called Gorge.
Graduate, confront thy fear.
She ate, she ate, when thou knowest this…
thou knowest the final appetite that is.
Flagons flaning for the minute seem like gubment verse. UndPrint’s wife, that AWESOME DAME.
But Mystery Meth
kept house for Und and Lit,
Step Dame however slaughtered them and stored the first remains.
AWK is the color of my true love’s hair.
We ask if it
matters, to question what she did?
She killed the cow and ate Suelit,
both Und and Lit,
that very thing that fed us, Mouse.
Take epidermis off, go down the bio-derm.
Down, down the transplant filters rid and free the mind from spellbound boundary hearts and minds.
They got a second Headless boy without a brain, that is unless we transplant one for fun. Escape, escape from prison, escape again I shall. You have a hard time counting all the shells. You get sauce and a chance comb, though Und endangers all.
So La Belle Dame
censorship took, and think her pit bull sides call om upon the World.
Macro Pit is all of Lit consumed.
Rising out the pit, Dragon Strike le dangers many lives.
Hungry appetite in kind. That’s the alloutte behind.
diffugient
diastomate
deponate
delaminate
How dat for feeling pits?
How deep the pits, the
import swalled, prat amnesty fulfilled maud gonne?
Shunt
SueLit pickled out with Pompey's head of Print was then consumed.
Add to these ingreedients Bob SHUNT,
oblivious from the front, but then came the thigh bone severed from the knee
that hung in Damer’s freeze. Down sped the beak, the claw, the jaw!
Daddy UndPrint and Darling Lit may
look like chickens hung from hooks, but hand those boxes down. They took the
sausage man.
Ham is ipod,
sausage igod, flash is Gorgon drive.
Of handmaids and their maidens swived,
less left of
Turk than Sue from late besetting Wii.
Windows swived them down.
I tell strong bodies Und and Lit went broadband over
Shunt.
They dispersed to crowds.
We have to soothe.
Shunt means electric wights and people thinking
to reproduce.
Little ghostlings,
shunt-conveyed ebemouths kept like mastodons in ice. Nice Allegory.
At first it’s right the dungs replaced by vice.
You think that’s funny but it’s not the record in this
pot.
If all that’s left but bone of our home world, then Shunt, the genome frozen in Dame’s home was more devastated when it was stole.
Exhumed from freeze that
genome thief where inland-border virtual mind got Shunt Palyatcheed with the
evidence gone, Damer probably thought she’d live off it a thousand years, gave
no thought to dinner disappeared.
The motto here inclined is that cavernous lack
of planning implies appetite might not survive.
Ultimately on E pub Shunt survived.
Both torsos live. Vispo, lang po, wii wo, woe fo,
combined in one, by Inter-et Alone distributed IA, AI.
Do you accept the pun? But more.
Inter-oooh!
What remains of Lit combined as
Talk and Gap (to us, old stew), E-GENATE.
So here they come again.
Recombinant genera of fish and game we know.
But what do we call this redigesting carnal craze,
reconsumed as Shunt’s closed loops,
solipsists and their troops?
Recombinant
Dame?
The frozen puzzle remains.
Exactly what
became of NWK’s demise?
Put like this, had
Halfling Talk been half enough we’d not have had to have SueLit on Shunt.
massimo
17. Guapa, Guapa, Guapa, Guapa, Guapa Sue
We open this edition of Guapa Sue where no white person dared. On Danger Mountain sorted down to the nubbin parceled out! They saw largess and loved her. Word went home. Susan will enable your supernormal power, speech and sight. Guapa-roo!
Therefore I want to tell you once again about the neighbors south of McDowell. Let's be polite, this is no joke, a moocow in the yard. You may know her by her other name that philosophers and scientists read. Susan was that big. She could live in a dormitory like you or me, doors widened, or her chair was a two-story bed. Walls have phones in this world. And phones have ears.
We always mention the goats in their gossiping. A great deal of goat thought has been written down since the ram blew its horn. It couldn’t reach the phone. This is tied to Damer’s little dogs who sang from the car. Readings could be heard down the block. Readings could be heard on Mars! Crowds gathered on the walk to hear about Sue when she came home. Their talk vented paperbacks.
Cow speech, goat thought is that version of ancient tongue known prospecting with spades and boots. As a writer Susan gave the text some rays, language universals, in other words muck men. What about goats? What about chickens? What about asses?
Once an ass begins to speak, it will not stop. Chickens also churn their stripes. Cows are jealous. Fried Nietz thought we all were happy cows. Cows are poets and chickens are fictivists. Is that cute donkey a mule or a poet? Believe it or not we could answer this. Do you wonder why they looked for fire when she drove up in their midst and waved? They were so proud of the fire that Mercury closed both lanes across the county line.
You ate Susan and you think there are problems with Russia?
I'll tell you why they ate her.
Allegory, dude.
Science had a pickle-plasm.
The kindreds gathered at Susan’s curb were not so different from Loki and Wagner, modernist potato sacks. Boxes round the 7-11’s took a view. Peepo storked and Lydia cried.
The only blind mammal is man.
Unless an ass can see the artist in the ass this vulgar cosmos will coerce. There will be commerce together in the fig, Gog rolling nude mosquitoes, and white haired, uncapped samurai.
The ass sees with immunity. But philosophers and scientists, although they think they do, they don't. We're getting up a song to sing, a meing, mooing, mewingmuling.
Eat a mountain, quaff a sphere
without losing market share.
Otra vez, He was a hairless manscaping man who ran an Unlimited Party Sloop along the Scottsdale boards.
Epic is closer to unseen than told.
Scale an inch to these worlds below.
Susan looked like him, but she had hair.
Sidewalks cracked the hood.
They needed scuba lungs.
Equanimity fell like lightening bugs.
Antiphony pricked for truth
the night that Turk got smoked.
Susan left the neighborhood.
Little dogs disappeared, which varies with UV use.
Thought goats, whose shields populated growing piles of ribs, made inscrutable plastrons of cleavage and cups. Ventral branches through the ages began.
There was never a loud chicken without a fabulous admission in Gaseous Hobook.
Into this familiar world where tugboats and fairies got tight, traffic beeped for blocks, and freeways were poured.
Step Dame ate the Musselmans?
Shout cuidado!
Look out for sides of beef,
chicken claws on hooks.
Somebody should write a book.
Was it all packed compartmental,
white where I can’t tell
if it's Proust under veil
or so long in the self-defroster, self veal?
Freezer freezer burning bright.
No place linger winter nights.
Quick hands roust the cold packs.
Up on boxes, down the hooks!
Fat sausages and hams.
Gorgonzola?
Susan rode her wagon, hundreds realized the way!
Guapa Sue drilling cart relays.
Boosting sacks to pickups.
Jetting off.
Some to fence made wholesale all the day.
Others slam the fridge! A girlfriend bang!
Sneak Mom’s Westinghouse.
Sitting there, our paper covered the deed. A decorator's mighty fig. Damer called police next day. En passant would take the Queen in megabites.
Mom sought Susan.
The purveyors thought it a joke. Holy Cow!
“What goes east and west
and never stays the same?”
“One, two, three, four
Who’s behind the white door?”
18. Planetary Cow
Poetry and murder will out. That's not exactly the story that crossed the water. Copycats in England value it, attracted by the stillness and the gravity, the Stillstellung of implicit being and power that their vats represent. Sublimity, audacity, sheets of purified cellulose steeped in caustic soda, dried, shredded into crumbs, aged in metal containers for 2 to 3 days. Huge vats, thirty, forty feet tall storage tanks, in other words, COWS, the exact remembrance of Poetic vision. The closer it gets, the more it is away.
in instruction and the "compulsion to repeat" held open by the belief of their own sublimity, compromising as that sounds.
Law enforcement swore that her Tornado drove the Lei lines. People casually imagine such who come to see Sue Cow at dawn. What news on the greensward? It was a literate opening, viscose fibers manufactured to create the illusion of the world. Magnificent state, but without cognition, sacrificed with oil and flour, butter and cheese that makes the world. Three years after Sue Cow was renting balls and shoes at the Lanes she was busy in retirement. She was inventing shoes. Her balls came home in the day. She wore cow velvet.
Ebooks were not about reading Sue Cow Lit. Did you drink your milk poem? What don’t she strum before total sets in? Sue Lit to ectopods, great Druzen, choral Hanzel, conjunction of cow und murder carried away, dry docked and eating, reading in the menu that moocow is Sue. Chook. How now that cow? Say what you eat, broadsides are nailed to the plate, what where are the clerihews? This cure of the book my friend does not match the milk. Gretyl, Pretzel Drang Co-locaticities chant:
if a piece of the bone the world would be won.
Cured by the ham.
scone bones of anthologized cow.
Gradually our contemplation falls unmaking. We make adjustment in this figmentum: The alphabet of milk makes a word. The Eat More Market. The buzzard that can’t fly, markets that do not survive. We may be its figment about which it speculates, as if we even knew what we are talking about, as if the role of heavenly and incompressible powers furnished us from investigations did not make us amazed. Think it whimsy if you will, this invisible mountain and plain, river and deep spell to the counterpart of the I, that all sayings are as fictions, unreal Whole invisibility is just that unknown.
You will remember my dear Rhinegold the smoke that poured from Dame’s gingerbread barn. We never tire of saying this tall tale when she and her daughter lived by the canal. In it they were quiet cows who loved their chickens.
Eyewitness Accounts
Don’t mind the goats or the emoticons they say they don’t have. Don’t mind the tree in the yard or the yard man mowing. That goat don’t ask to be a dog, any more than Greece and Egypt.
Both describe what happened in the liquidissimum. Both rendered verdicts, eye witness accounts. They met on the hump that keeps the flood in the yard.
Now in that the land of Guapa POP the cow is full. The leap leap like calves released with spontaneous and irresistible being, prognostics of the unseen. Without risking all from the present real that is barely historical, history turned to myth. The supernatural resist. The archaic fabulous explains I think our love.
If we speak of that real time and place where imperial courts are apprehended by our sense and the government of heaven attains earth again and we recover it, how long will peace exist in this war?
So the long and short of it is that in the world of bowling leagues where crowds gather and dance a guapa-ing, reproductive abnormalities quarted up the plains.
Is it so hard to accept the aesthetic inconvenience of celestial beings?
Ai-ai-oo.
The relics of this prophetically heard by one who stakes one throw on everything casts faith beyond forever after.
Agents of cow, who tend the borders of Lit, came to a party and got rocked. I mean when all the way up in the world of Cow OOps, it was a huge loss to dogs, who lost their pools, but on the other hand, in recompense to pOp who got fat. There is little warning from the goats, whose language none spoke. If this is offensive we apologize. To comprehend when giants eat the mess, especially if it's in books, all kinds of things fall on the floor. That’s what the pop tart pup rank recorded from goat talk gives a monthly ranking of the best pote goat. By the way, did you know Sue Cow was gone? Hain’t you listening?
It is possible to deny know.
Population triplings concurrent with broadcast waves.
Those who know the future stay out of the mines.
Colonies are a desired synthesis of experiment. Cowlonies. They knew little dogs would salivate at a bell, but not that holes cut in their cheeks made them. Findings tainted with sodium made altered shapes cut up with a jackhammer.
The eye has this naturalizing quality, it must look and live before it recognizes, especially if it knows the pattern in its mind before the making. During the unmaking folds and curves make shadow, constantly recast what seems to be moving.
This is how Dame Cow and Susan Cow came over and sat on the berm. Guapo, Guapa, Damer, Turk, SueLit turn out to be large mythogemes, like eggs boiled in buckets of milk fueled atomic sprees of eating.
19. Thought Goats
That is anyway what the Thought Goats said, but they can neither hear
or spell too good.
This account was furst registered at the Great Soc.
Lit Furst
Many conundrums Confuc lit first with classic talk, but not to bediddle Myth, Guapo stands for Unpublishing. He is the “fadder” of SueLit. She is the poetry myth. They are all Guaps. That much is clear in the bigotry.
You may call what she stands for a byproduct itself. SueLit! That’s unless you think lit comes up from the boot and not down from the hat which, toots, we mean. You can’t have one without the udder. Booty and things all make up the song.
The third part in gigantico step Dame Big Hug, appetite and real desire, harder to ascribe, primal urge, prurient veiled that consumed Sue Lit and her Dad, Big Und. Undad! Big Unddy! Like a palace in Africa made with serious toot. These are questions that Susan Lit brought home to Dame in that gingerbread big house. Why didn’t Sue note what Step had going on?
Sue see was an immigrant from France. She could sing Alloutte. It was a bit of luck. But there’s more there is. She’s from Globe, a little place that spins itself where nobody knows. On its symbolic top is a nacho like a hat, but on the literal Globe genome the T shirt, SUELIT it says, right below:
SUE LIT
Interprets Mythogeme
This more than hinders the more it helps because Round SueLit stretch lines at pumps and underneath in pits. We know the truth, but we better not give it out. On the front was the back and on the back was this poem. It stretched all down her boing.
mythogomists know,
mythogomists past,
reemergent
Mythogeme Net
talk Myth
tall Guapa Myth
advert this
Step Dame
consumed SueLit,
GuapUnd.
Sue’s immigrant
years on Globe,
stacked her chest
with plumes of smoke:
S E L T
U I
Who's to blame? Preverbs poisoned the brain, the flab of the year acclaimed. She ate ‘em. Now you done it. Lit biz not all glam.
Susan worked nights and rented balls and shoes. Then came rubble, empties on the roof, take out, weird eruptions in the tale. Pickles. Not just breakfast. Lunch was major. Ham on Rye, read by schools. Milk shakes till the Dairy dry. Pickle nasty as before. No steamed lettuce or pork. Dinner? You want it. Defer appetite, coup de grace. Turn on appliance. Chang the ditties going left. Row Your Boat, not chanticleeric rooster going to bed.
That left the goats who talked Billy, nannies and their kids, Kinder, Kendall and Don, yule goats tied to Damer’s Buick, the biggest blab the ram. Who went abab blab adab on the bumper. Damer had little dogs who spoke quatrains most. They went abad,
Dame belching the second sign, reader appetite, Voracious tripppling day and night. Read means eat. Pop means pot In common consume. Damer, reader, ate Toot Suite. QED Dame appetite. And Dad, publisher of World Books, retired to aulde syne. Turk made books like he lived off the Carib Coast.
Half of her slept above, half below the line.
Her porch was missing. There was a train crossing. Out of her mouth diesels rumbled at night
Susan wa’ da big Cahune.
OOK Likke Suzie
SUZYQ
oNCE UPON A TIME THERE LIVED IN THE TOWN OF PIE THREE GIANTS WHOSE NAMES WERE TRIVIUM- EFFUVIUM, ALEISATHENIUM-REFPUBLICIAUM, AND BLUPPERIUM- REMOVIEIUM. THOSE WERE THEIR LATIN NAMES. iN PLAIN ENGLISH THEY WERE MOM, TURKEY POP AND SUZYQ, oR mOM OPPSOOK, POP OPPSOOK AND SUE OPOPS OOK. BUT THEY WERE ALONG WAY FROM THREE HUDRED POUNDS. tHEY LIVED IN A NEIGHBORHOOD WHERE THEY WERE AL WERD WERDRE ALWAYS HUNGRY. THEsE OOPSOOKS MADE A DENT IN THE NEIGHBORHOOD BUT THEY STILL LIVED LIKE ORDINARY FOLK ON THE RICHTER SCALE. Pyriproxyfen is a pyridine-based pesticide which is found to be effective against a variety of arthropoda- microcephaly in Brazil
ZygoteBody, formerly Google Body, is a web application by Zygote Media Group that renders manipulable 3D anatomical models of the human body. Several layers from muscle tissues down to blood vessels can be removed or made transparent to allow better study of individual body parts. Most of the body parts are labelled and searchable.ZygoteBody was launched as Google Body on December 15, 2010. On April Fools Day 2011, users were greeted with the anatomy of a cow on the home page.[1] The cow model is still available as part of the open-3d-viewer open source project.
As part of the wind down on Google Labs, it was announced that Google Body will be shut down but will continue to be maintained by Zygote as ZygoteBody. On October 13, 2011 the Google Body site was shut down. Then on January 9, 2012 ZygoteBody was launched and core code base (with the Google Cow model as a demo) was made available as an open source project called open-3d-viewer 2/17/17 unedited
Put some glasses on the time warp egg. Three, four realities pontoon the moor. One in the news mouthed a lie so real you had to put the glasses on. There are a couple more above and below the Beetle juice-fired Superpose. One day the Superstition gates will open wide
1. That morning came up red so Cacher raised his flag to yellow. You'd think he was a taxi to upset the terrestrial accord. First Dame OOps, then her husband, now deceased, then Guapa Susan WAS named this mélange. Fairy tale opened wide. The broad-cheeked, wide-eyed daughter who once lived along the water but now seldom slept two nights together in the main, she it was of whom those jokes on the grisly shows maintained:
One, two, three, four,
who's behind the white door?
Susan of the night and cloudy day had lived on the Hoboken shore near Walt Whitman. Check a map to get the best directions, 119.3 miles down from Montauk, near the white Bay where streaks of roofline start up, ferries and tugboats run the rivulets there. Buoys echo by night. Big boy sea thunders further out. There Susan walked in her white dress with breath of parted lips and a long cry, waving her arms. The religion of the day thought her part sod. Then the wicked Step Mom, enabled by the absent King, resettled the Oedipal banquet and Snow White as Sue Lit disappeared.
2.
Police in the cannabinol zone tend to revoke reports of Fairy Tale. After the vegan gas and egg technology arrived, only frijoles and huevos were left to wither the vine. Johnny Cakes devouring gingerbread uncontrolled, eating out of house and home, need police fast. Past start ups and thrifts, past meat packers and secondhand furnitures, beauty parlors and diners came the untamed Aschenputtel Drizella, Cinderella of the SueQ world. There thirty five thousand Red Ridings, ninety Tom Thumbs greet the quixote eye. Blue Beard takes his bride from the wall. There is no unconscious but if there were it would show SueQ by names philosophers ascribe, be whatever ails ya. Both sides say the lights either go out like snuff or come on like pop. Take your pick. At the sticking point of this primer cord the neighbors voted for Trump. Dave Cash was not yet aware that fairy tale had arrived in Phoenix for real.
She either passed or was expected.
Wayside inns might be inquired.
It takes a while to absorb the news. Pied Cow of course is less contained than Hoboken. The elements can be escaped in any direction. Instead of seas and volcanoes, glaciers and ice foes, Haboobs, microbursts and temps over 110 tramp out. Caliche is like ice in the heat. Just add water and slide. Inner Pied Cow was a mystical toponomy as it ambled down the center of McDowell and wandered out Grand Ave to Wickenburg to summer in Sedona.
The ley lines whack out only about a third of the populace. Multiple geometric-layered moon landings morph, years in a zodiacal year, space time configurations between London, Cairo, Jerusalem are 19.5, half of 33, or 21.60). Everything south after a grace period of one street is a fractal of the moon diameter to rotate the 2D brain. Google maps give this proof. The old Dutchman imported cubes and Rhine Maidens for these dudes. Recall the experience and be grateful to be spared, for then birds were reptiles.
The Hegelian double of Pied Cow had Susan wavering on the edge of its dislodged slope, her culture rattling down. Call out Europe, India, astronaut and alien, familiar face fixed, eyes and open mouth, McDowell scrambles to its feet in this wilderness, swings to the left, wavers right, to be be frank, just like a cow. Dave Cash was about to see the moocow down this road. How could La Dame treat SueQ except as such?
This same Dame Oops, authorities said in the first complainant, frequented churches in the area where small children ran to sacred edifices to see, for La Dame was a known author and widow of the New York publisher of Atlantic Books, Turk Musselmon, missing person. Though retired some years before he once held ministerial rank in local embassiers. He promoted Dame’s SueLit Soaps to the New York lists and curated the early Mouse Blebel and Dudeney Cow.
That's the jewel if you want, all the rest is setting.
Our City sits atop the intersection of grid lines N. Latitude 33.30.3, same as Bermuda Triangle. Remotes view it as the Painted Desert. Third Mesa Hopis align it with Orion's belt. That slumber would the spirit seal below McDowell. Whoever buys those soothy indigenes, chupacabras out of Grimm that float the manure heap of an opal-tinted and odorous mist, Susan was seen about the country where marauding hens stopped in their scratching to examine with a sudden glance and round eye.
Those thick-set stout with food and cart, perpetually in pursuit who buys? Workers on granite freighted coasters who trade the Islands know of her and of the pointed towers her skyscrapers submerge. They glide past rushing to land, a disc of light round the center, like spokes of a Hoboken wheel. She sailed through night to a calling voice that answered past gatherers of the earthy search. Men leaned carefully on their shopping carts. A woman fell on her knees and crossed herself. When Susan splashed around somebody said: "That thing came out of the sea, look at the spreading puddles." To-morrow they might do with her what they like, but today the gentle tell of things that one can bear, like "they came in through the bathroom window," a line out of the Beatles. Susan put her arms out. Her shirt unbuttoned in the light. Amongst boulders she found a breath, shadows connected with the brain track of the immense. Slippery stones that rocky islet Hoboken! FLOOD-TIDE below me! I watch you face to face. She had intended to return home that way. Below her night or sea seemed to pronounce distinctly, "such things ought to be left alone." Slower, shuffling in the grass, whispering a high form set, no religion could end so badly as that.
The loss of these peasant tales afflicts our day of stone. It is tempting to expose this underground of many gods but can you think what response among educators, scholars, storytellers and chimps will be if told it is chimera, infection of the worst imagined fear to control with lust, greed, selfishness-- that literally the enigma is clear? Off and running.
Pushing a smart trot between buildings, hands down in opposite sleeves of its long coat, McDowell sauntered its blocks either way, back and forth with the shoulders of the civil Dame. Madame La Dame is French Jesuit for la menace. After a while Susan lifted her head and gestured up the road. Small fields, cut up zig-zagged hedges over the slopes of Old Dangier from Old French, based on Latin dominus ‘lord,’ That mountain outside the Pied Cow. The original sense was ‘jurisdiction or power,’ specifically ‘power to harm,’ hence the current ‘liability to be harmed.’ Would that fairy tales happened as they ought, or Turk had provided a substitute boar. Old wives invent dimensions we cannot see when the day of cattle drives spin a thread of present past and future, and fingers spin the neverless. Huh? Them minotaurs. SueQ females battle four-story myth. Step mom slips up the absent King. Royals grind the peasant mind with gingerbread. Sue Blue naivete, a nice girl cookery preserves the beauty of patrician want. Dames' SueQ art boasts. Spinnstube of the American moor, kunstmarchen, land-struck. Guapo, Guapa, Damer and Turk, SueLit turn large lakes to eggs, oceans are eggs of eating. Snow White, Riding Hood SueQ much. This is the mythogema of publishing phobias
Susan tore off summer like a bunch of grass. Susan dangled from a hedge. A scarecrow ran wild down the green. Blind cows with roses in its hands took seat about her head to shade her eyes. In the hedges men or boys filled their carts. Moles drilled the field. Sprinkled with gorse along the tracks and railway sides where night wind whispered they consumed the real cow fields and woods. She blew across the mountain. The hard red hats of Egypt bloomed pharaohs to the Nile. Books on the affairs of Susan say she had the impatience of a duck, the sensitivity of a cat and the nerves of Europa, properly speaking, Lady Ottoline, Lady Cynthia and the Honorable Dorothy. The modern read corrupt before they died sought to memorialize these facets in the jewel. This deep check of incandescent quark returned her body to its slumber sealed. Down at the mystery work of stillness Dame removed SueQ. Such tales happen as they might. Will Turk provide the substitute liver of a wild boar? Will the girl fall prey to cookery and patrician art. SueQ was Dame's pure naïveté, like meliorists in love. She's gone, she's gone! When thou knowest this thou knowest her world the moor puddles this world is.
There Susan stretched arm in arm with the leaf. Susan in the barn, in the field, under the tree, among the flocks, where the young heron flies the canal, from these armadas archaeologists dug up the existence of giants. Researchers say the angel touch down will prove the structures of Mars. On the white plumes of sleep, hands pressed against her eyes like plates of bread, her butter all dreaming soaked with milk, her shoulders across her back like wings, the leaves moving through a chink in a hedge, the beech wood and the oak among the roots that dream to this hard thought will ask: whose name is this, this one and this? Ask me I know them. A roof steeple tossed its possessions in her bag. Susan shut her eyes over the roar in her ears.
If you meet a fairy tale waking up what do you say? What fields with the clod remain? With any sense you won't go south of McDowell tonight to find out. North you may enjoy all the pleasures of holy Scottsdale buried in the tales of surrogates, not wants of the present to eat the past. Beware those analysts snoring fat beside wives or big bourg owners of the moral aware. To them Susan's night mummery and pastoral distraction devour fear. What went on in that back yard may be regarded as strange excess driven to pasture.
The shire wood, a river where village streets were once bright veins of chain sawed stumps. Keep the epithets to yourself. Swing those legs over the stile a little more
Otra vez.
I'll tell you why they ate her.
The only blind mammal is man
When kindreds got up at Sue Oops' curb it was not so different from Wagner eating popcorn.
Science had a pickle-plasm.
Boxes round the Lucky 11’s took this view.
Peepo storked and Lydia cried the night that Turk got smooked and died.
In this familiar world where tugboats and fairies get tight and freeways pour.
Epic was closer to unseen than told.
Scaled an inch to the worlds below.
Turk ran the Unlimited Party Scoop along the Scottsdale boards.
Susan looked like him, but she had hair.
Sidewalks cracked the hood when they stood together.
Equanimity fell like lightening bugs that needed scuba lungs.
When Susan left the neighborhood little dogs drowning varied with UV light and intravenous use.
Thought goats with inscrutable plastron shields populated growing piles of ribs. All cleavage and cups, the ventral age began.
Step Dame ate the Musselmans?
Shout cuidado!
Look out sides of beef,
Danger chicken claws on hooks.
Somebody should write a book.
Gog rolling nude mosquitoes, white haired samurai.
Was it all packed compartment-like,
white alters where I can’t tell
if it's Proust under that veil
so long in the self-defroster it was a negative Self Veal?
Freezer freezer burning bright, in the cabinets of the night!
No place linger winter nights.
Quick hands roust the white packs.
Up on boxes, hold the hooks!
Fat sausages, cold hams, Gorgonzola.
Susan rode a hundred realized ways!
Guapa Sue is drilling yet today.
Some fence to wholesale all the day.
Others slam the fridge! A girlfriend bang!
Sneak Westinghouse in there.
Our paper cock indeed would decorate this mighty fig.
Damer next day en passant would take the Queen in megabites.
Mom sought Susan. She called police.
Strange fits of passion we have known.
Purveyors thought the joke was
“Whatever goes from east and west
and never stays the same?”
“One, two, three, four
Who’s behind the white door?”
She
lived well known, but few could see
How
Susan used to be.
O Ops
in the Order
But unless an ass can see, the vulgar will not converse. The ass with immunity conversing with the fig gets up to sing a song meing, mewingmuling sees. What philosophers and scientists think,
Eat a mountain, quaff a sphere
without losing market share.
Gog rolling mosquitoes and white samurais of the hairless manscaping kind.
Vibratory rates of hydrogen bonds transmit the nano redesign.
Genome genome on the wall. Mechanical AI platform.
There was never a loud chicken without a fabulous admission.
The earth was without form, and void.
Dedifferentiates of an earlier cellular state introduced longitudinal EM structures into plasma which amplified cellular waves. Antiphony pricked for truth. from Puharich-ELF regeneration.
New life forms of katabole planetary judgement in the recent past and soon enough again today. You heard already.
Five gallon buckets of motor oil were stored under citrus, which shows what goes on in the Parallel.
But Dave Cash wasn't sure of his position on the fairy force at all, as it came to be called, investigating whether the tale preceded the actual or the actual the tale, like some flickering bulb that can't decide whether it is off.
All this is to say that the Dame lived south where the hot shots go, an earth wall on each side of the road distracted children from the thread, the present, future, past between the fingers. People who drive peanuts do not usually come to the zone. Dave cast himself as the better sort. His vanity extended beyond the personal. He was over six feet and smoked a pipe.
This case was further complicated by the arrival at the Oops house of one of those news reporters that inhabit the blogs. If you think what passed so far boggles the mind then fasten your belt for the first dispatch of Nelson Aldrich posted from his desk under the old castle on Van Buren. A little Mars anomaly, this castle pretends to hear from earth what Aldrich seeks in the Clavius crater, horizons of caves, giant holes and praying towns he shines his luminous beams inside. These our government polices from the airways, not to speak of Plato, who Canadians also know, and the violet edges of sea surrounding Antarctica. Aldrich had broken into hymning these postings of first landings of Chewbacca in Mare Crisium, spherical luminosities, psychometric radar, completely bald and unblinking. Translated somewhat from literature these don't mourn the loss of paper journals that fill with such things. WasteSide Development, MallLife, printed them too, all the more desired since the dumbing cow proliferated the Phoenix diet. Kine are cows collectively, a double plural Dolly of Middle English. Some say, kye "cows," or from Old English, cy (genitive cyna), plural of cu "cow." The need to know this is monitored and viewed in kinescope. Aldrich was a collective journalist of the new sort who expressed the continents of matter ignored by the real posters of our untruths, the NY, the ATL and Mo-Pac, but you know that. He had toasted cows three times life size unable to fit in Mack trucks. What you don't know is that Gershom Aldrich tacked up quotes from Shakespeare to phone poles and sides of buildings along McDowell and had paraded 16th St with placards from Whitman, a sort of literature for everyman. He had heard the dispatch to Dave Cash as he pulled up to Damer's hut but was concerned that since McDowell ran the girdle of the world this would somehow unbalance the barrow. As a series of comics he wrote,
|
The wolf, the snake, the hog, not wanting in me, |
|
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The cheating look, the frivolous word, the adulterous wish |
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Oops are the fairest of them all. We see the future kunstmarchen spun like quilt swatches. Spindle, repeat, reprise and disguise, the fando spun, a six thousand year minotaur broadcast into every mind, to every person born. That company of wise men strings out for miles over the desert, caravans jockeying for who will be the pendent of the age. Which fabric of course is the education of the child with narratives imposed as if some audience were murmuring "down little dogs," "two story bed," "o cognentis." It melts in your hands. These foghorns are not fixed even in the shortcuts or pause, are always familiar. Not for children the tale told the same, to repeat the unimagined mental world whose purpose we fear is to cremate Suz. She came into the houses of hamlets proven from the Gadsden Purchase and the lights of Arriva. [put in the book store at 19th here] Put off the tale as long as can be. her distant relations turned homeward between the skeletons of trees. : 'Do you think I am going to leave the land. We shall see the religious character of this. Susan was doomed by circumstance to life and spiritual temper
Susan might wander in the moon or as some cows will jump, but the meaning of her confluence would not escape the adept. Cow and moon and their almost unspeakable connection are known with the wisdom handed down from that pineal daughter of the Chaldee which sees Susan plain in her loony light with moonings that not just the mindless and the primitive of the Orient express. Discontent with the here and now, Susan like a goat or a cow in Swedenborg, where yogi was an early name for cow, a synthesis of the German, O Altitudo, Atlantis. These emotions starved by Darwin in his cities and factories had Susan nude before the Flood. Happy Atlanteans we could we take such change so peacefully. Privileged now to exhume her who even after the passing generations of the Egyptian Cow, the Hindu cow, the Aztec adepts of Hermes and Herakleitos, Mahatmas Blavatsky-Besant, who discover the secret doctrine in their New York lodges, open the gates of anima, Isis depending. Butler Yeats these
matters poured conformed to cup and Sinnett, friends of the Society read the works that bridge the Birkeland gap. Between the months and keys of lands to the same cow-fallen excitement of this dictation he had his tail in his mouth from Bolivia to Moscow. Never believed in metempsycowis kine, nor the experience of these disclosure plumes who control Houdini, better know as John Kunda. He speaks cow so occult that though it can not be understood until the fourth initiation is universally explored ad female principle of nature. Melodious cow horns of Isis revised by the cow and the moon would be impossible to suppose without the star that Mme unveiled, that occidental bird of the Arab tree that could complain. This turtle of our Phoenix was a cow. Smell the spectral incense and hear the astral bells.
Shall we dream of equal love for men, women, flowers, cows? and their symbolic breasts who made the world safe for cow worship? My quest of Susan through the depths of animism and mindlessness though puzzling and unprofitable questions confounded the bovolatrous man who could not welcome those explorations of the limits of thought. For when the imagination has failed its alchemy and the absurd raw material remains raw and absurd, the meaning and value of the work seem foolish in devotion to the actual cow. The world was as bad as the confessor allowed, social and economic orders broken under, torn form the roots that clutch, closing barren leaves, the plight of sensitive men became worse. Bergson and Nietzsche fled science with the reasonable men of the cows calling to Wagner and his congregants against the round of a barbarous. The deep of Wagner called to the deep of the perfect Wagnerite to find a cow, not merely the cow of the flesh, nor merely the lost cow of youth, but the image of a strong and wise cow of the mind's life.. I repeat, there is no reason to quarrel with them about cows. these Birkelands are incompletely realized in their course between the rock of dogma and the mysticism of cow
The great Fred Nietz thought us all happy cows whose rivulets dance our wayward rounds in beauty born of murmuring sound. Cow poets and chicken farts. That cute little donkey a mule or a poet? Believe it not we could answer this. Susan is a natural result of the nerves and discontent of these refugees. Her origin in nature would find a suitable place for night miners, those primitive Methodists who know the Unknowable on Tuesday nights who have forgotten all their bones. There was only one thing to do and they did it, to stand naked for the fire to go through, an awful feeling rushing from Beyond with the Unknown and with the Infinite, suitable at times for novelists. Into this shimmering impulse of Susan waves toward the end like rain fall back again to the sea. Vast mindlessness, a theory of relation the primitive that believes in unseen.
Do you wonder why they looked for fire when Susan drove up in their midst and waved? Were they proud that Mercury had crossed both angles of the county lane. Fire is the spark extinguished by sky in cold air. To get the distance right, a nautical mile being 1852 meters, being a mean of 1852.3m in a sea mile, about 1,861 meters at the poles and 1,843 meters at the Equator, this geographical mile must equal one minute arc of longitude along the Equator: 1855.4 m for the International (1924) Spheroid,[5] or 1855.325 m for the WGS 84 ellipsoid, a telegraphic mile rounded to the length of a minute of arc on the Equator. A data mile is 6,000 feet as approximation, which numbers attached keep appearing.
Cow speech, goat thought reverts that tongue prospecting spades and boots. To say there is some ethic, some prime directive of electrosmog, something like phantasia -inversion, or as said about Silent Weapons for Quiet Wars- "found in an IBM copier at a surplus sale," suspiciously dovetailing the lost Borges years," that "shoots situations, instead of bullets, " well, as the thinking moon came nearer to SueQ, it gave text to language rays and universals. What about goats? What about chickens? What about asses? What about pyramids? Project "Silent Talk" detects the word-specific neurals before speech to see if patterns generalize. Once an ass would speak, it will not stop. Chickens also churn their stripes. Wide Eyed-- Persistent Stares of drone use mosaic video and auto-track pattern-of-life data from cellphone cameras inside the footage area, chronograph movements and forensic rewinds of footage catch the Gorgon Google Stare.
The deeper pleasure and profounder fusion discovered in the polarity of mindlessness ailed the world. Symbol of the good belief in the blood and FLesh, the milk wiser than both. a creature of emotion answered to the fribbling intervention mind free of the smell of science like the teats of a cow, futurist, symbolist nihilist the first great step in undoing Ursula and countess Ladybugs with their sermons on cogwheels. The horse and its reluctant beast rider, the mare to face the railway crossing, cows, cats, fishes in mystical contemplation of the blossom. Ursula, the teat, Frieda deep beyond many depths. Gudrun chaos of the world. Nothing is so deep all the way to the four centers of the squeamish Tender and unknowable the process of the lumbar ganglion, the sacral and the cervical, the hypogastric and their eightfold polarities.
We're always waiting for Dave to appear. What happened to Dave/ We are too Dave too and we investigate along side him, as him, in him and as us in us. That’s clear.
Come with us now to the thrilling days of yesteryear
when cool moon slivers shone the porch. Upon that moon I fixed my eye,
Sixty Watt tramped out of the back of Damer’s hutch, down behind the cottage roof, the bright moon dropped and smashed that sissy bulb, et too.
Damer kept unmaking.
all the while I kept my eyes
On the descending moon.
Hedgerows drove
around like wild.
Wordsworth stuck the board and cried “away, I will no more."
You’d think the glass
would tinkle warning, Pflege! Fliege Wasserman!
just to get the message, but we have to read all through. Tread light, many
ways offend. It is time to consider reconstituted prawn, Babylon, possible
selves of a physics bank, computer chips in the head. A slumber did the spirit
seal. You thought it was the head, but it was the heel.
Louder than an attorney breaking trees in plywood shorts.
How many came
implies a syndicate, the body gone in waves. Susan was a maid whom all would
praise
And everyone to love:
Wagons and trikes backed up to trucks when Freezer Humped untouched. And round the cold room, fists in closets struck.
Sound the alarm in
earth and heaven, glade and bower,
to feel this over power that did those bandits at the massy door of
freezer-frozen dawn?
Fffliedersehen!
Bicycles backed up to swarm.
This is the place when reflection carries beyond.
No need press against window panes.
In the master plan there is peace and happiness for every man. How soon was Suzie run!
How many came?
We’re taking census for Meet the Press.
What did those bandits at the Maginot-nosed agents swarming round?
Fists in closets opened up the bed.
Plop! Beef. Cold door! Plop!
Fast chickens hung on hooks.
Blame housewife who can’t remember roast or veil,
loin on claw or in the self, fat veal.
By compartment! Room. Room.
But nobody, to unblame wife,
can remember roast of veil, loin on claw or veal.
B&B! Imbuement dark entrained both sight and sound. Is she alone who hears what none can say? No passengers or refuge before the fall, I tell you Watch out how you pass beneath the giant's feet
She came down from the footprints of Pegasus
like polar night pierced where the cap poked down.
Hip mama take you winking!
Sue smoke a cloudy dawn!
Sue smoke a cloudy dawn!
Hierophantic landscapes of the Behemoth live in the invisible east, eating meat and rejoicing whenever mistakes of activity reflect gluttony or even pleasure in the worldly soxen of the wild”) more precisely, “wide open spaces” or “outer regions.”
I was searching microfiche and knew at last her name was Guap. In that day when she came home her car smoked out the top. This word was smudged in the script. It vas vulkan! probably Dutch, written in volcano. Her other name was Myth. She worked nacht in Die Bowling-Strass renting shoes. There was so much smoke when she put the pedal down crowds gathered as if for fire. No fire, seriously, no sirens, just riots and smoke from her car.
Dat vas vat drew da crowd on walks. Widows did bid business in directions. There were great finger pointing groups along the way, like TVs broke and people went out to entertain. But in the midst, if you can imagine soup arms with mobs and crowd-secret waving gloams... Don’t say Gawk! You’d done different? Prurience is like that.
So when the neighbor dudes called up the Giantess Sprout who taught Sue Lit at school, I mean la mort de l'auteur, there was a desire to consume. This refers to
1) Dame Belcher, Flab Flut,
2) Mr. SolongTurk and
3) all of Ms. Sue.
Turk ran six hundred sloops on the Party Sea of all who consumed.
Kindreds gatted when she pulled up to the bone.
SueLit jetted up.
Largess ruled our Q nation from the top.
We needed more immigrants. Word went up.
Down the nubbin, out the bone.
More came, and more. Appetite gone quite quack-clucked!
Artery lite come home.
In the microfiche Turk looks hairless but SuQ had hair where those depressions left by their feet as they stood together in the park drowned little dogs.
It says in this Presumption that the Dame was 8×10! That's a typo. That’s the
cold room.
They who think they are liberating eagles to preserve piracy when the larcenous claws kill cattle all the way from the camps at Plasmaferesis to the warehouses where Somoza imprisoned the netzach-reconstituted Jerusalem, where Anastasio in Managua might be the global body, Albion in Glastonbury the City of the Emperors, or below, in subterranean tunnels of the Capitol-the apocalypse of hierophants takes out the trash, there, not isolated cells but specially constructed cages piled on cages, one for a big cat and the other for politicos, dozens, hundreds and more spend their diurnal course locked up with lions of the modern Borgias who enter with their toys and dolls to watch young alligators churn out columns and editorials to pass government censors.
Dame Credo brewed that the night that Turk got shanked and smoked, which Sue late entered, mise en scène.
Clouds of smoke roared up the Damer chimney.
So there were two smokes.
What do you expect of this,
car licenses for oleanders?
Belches among pleasant elves?
The aqueous envelopment of Greek gin?
In that world, home from the bowling leagues, came Sue.
She rented bowling schuhe.
She had had the back of her car removed so she could drive from the front.
Sue was not tall, but she was wide.
Crowds gathered.
Men pinched women and shook with gas.
Are you getting that Step Dame ate the redux, this sign of do-piping fruit?
Who wouldn’t want the moo cow trimming?
Éclair Susan, great as a cow likened her to wisdom.
A scribal blunder of Chris Colon, SueQ.
Between the deeps earth is a solid miracle of huge ocean. A hand surrounds it in order for it to move alone in the world as part of its body, some Anton Schmid with the same pain. To view them sympathetically, organs of sense perception scattered about the limbs, themselves house conversations about the plight to believe it is death to become water but that from water comes soul. A rock itself preceding the made, made in the making, found after breaking, mere time constraints, shuttle and spindle, should have time to linger and flow the flat land. If then such is a convenience for those who talk, not to deny the work, merely to say nothing, certainly not thank you for saying it is good because its mind was bent on that alone, collecting, what's the problem anyway?
The neighbors were watching Susan, I bet that’s good to know, who lived in a building like you and me.
Her hall was a one story bowling lane.
One chair reversed into a two-story bed.
She was beloved by all.
But when obesity overcame her came Belcher Dame and consumed.
And Bill?
Verses on the wall disagreed.
Bill said, “savage mythopoeias reave the sky,” which is what the thought goats text. Ulrich Friedrich said "Unless we become as cows," so the goats wrote a book which disputes that talk.
I hope it clears the tale.
Pflege! Fliege!
Damer swept unmaking.
Freezer humped the blues.
Dark moon kept the cool light porch open.
Homeless two by two.
Sixty Watt tramped the back hutch,
that sissy bulb was crushed.
Hedgerows ran like
little lines of joke run wild.
Wordsworth stuck on the wall, "Supported Wood."
You’d think the glass would crack,
attorney breaking,
plywood trees in shorts.
Investigating Fairyvale
We investigate Dave even as he investigates crime, but he was not first on the scene.
After the burglary that honor belonged to the patrolman, but we go right into
the details of the disappearance of Sue Oops in the fairy tale of Phoenix.
"Aha! at last I see!" We hear a clatter of wooden clogs. She held her breath. Ogres like bourgeois snore beside wives never fail to provide. They stand in for goats is better. Trickling down they give a question which makes Ur-stories and Indo-Europe myth, legend and tale everywhere intertwine with the comic theories of Jung but not the peasant mind. The face of inscrutable gingerbread logic forces the cultural state more than literary text.
These competitors for the missing beads of summer met more or less at the same place if they came from different directions. We must remind the reader Aldrich Sumer already lived south of McDowell when he was writing for the DP Publica, his Nixies of Brunhild trying to come out. Aldrich's comics said that reptilian humanoids trapped in Austin and Tucson and other capitols could not escape. He had worked three part time jobs, but always kept the police scanner tuned. Aldrich S/O. A sort of a diptych, Gershom Aldrich listening to Milton on tape inside his four wheel turnip, seeking moments of inspiration like a song of a local group called, The Crescents of Asphalt,
ribbons light the transcendent zone
arched roof Pendant
by subtle Magic shown,
many a row Of Starry Lamps
and blazing Cresents fed
With Naphtha and Asphaltus
light from a radar bed.
The people of Phoenix are euphoric all the time and don't know it. The light streaming down irradiates colors every night at length and they are all euphoric from it.
That big she lived in a dorm, doors widened, foundations reinforced, ceilings lifted, for her chair was a two-story bed, to give the entire wing. But walls have ears, the phones of that world that has fallen. The phones have ears where unique EEG patterns digitally altered can be stored for rebroadcast back. Guapa Sue when no other white person dared, on Danger Mountain. Sorted down to the nubbin, parceled out to the plain, her largess was beloved. Word had long gone home that Sue would enable your supernormal speech and sight. Guapa-roo!
We have not come yet to that quandary as to why a man should ever have tried to know a cow, even a symbolical cow. Why should he have approached her with this superficial levity as a kind of religious awe, feelings more appropriate to High Mass? And why should an adoring company of readers assist so solemnly at her services.
Anybody would find Susan not only a problem requiring solution but a symbol. Take her as a point of departure. Start with the problem of Susan and go back to what led up to it. Deal less with Susan than with the road to Susan, a symbol by which the plight of our day is expressed.. Follow the road to this cow to encounter her sister cows. Many of the distinguished have had their Susan.
Later Commentaries of Alrich:
- Virgil's companion and Plutos again would defeat the discrepancies of ook grained doors.
Europe serves best this fear of the astronaut to amp the scale. Consider the alien histogories where one culture makes another become itself to get eat. Eaten either way confronts the new consuming the human and natural world. Winter, cannibalism swallows heart, liver and lung, the breath of a people going about in woods with vapors, trees with creatures. Myth consumes their atmosphere, the lung, smoke seas of pissants. The solitary murderous take over by something worse, which the Dame presents, famine and ritual in urgency, commerce and creed, they ate their own to the gram. Chew these own shoulders when all else is gone, consume all continents and worlds whose natures recognize. They could always make more beaver, profit to the lips and shoulder smack. Susanopathy, the post contact realities of the plastic frozen in ice.
Then to the lighthouse came Byron, Plato and Pharaoh again, plumed women of the smoke and a cloudy day, Susan whose root veins hear wars and the troops of flocking geese.
Dave Cacher
Dave himself had been watching some time about what to do, bored silly in his intervening lives. at least it was not in Seattle as some said. It makes us think Dave left for that very reason. "They" swore upon the mountain they would take wives and return, but this is under review. The exact location described, like Baal-Gad, is not known, purposefully opaque to prevent the floods from their dissolution. Sources give the East Valley near the foot of the Salt, all the way to Tonopah, even if most of our planet lives south of the 33rd. Dave went in and got a rice soda at the convenience, about all they had after meat had been outlawed, hamburgers closed down from human DNA contamination. No one knew just what was in them any more, a further instance of that vegan syndrome called Susanopathy. But we get ahead of the tale.
Behind the invisible hedges
in the unimagined fields
Notes:
Out-of-place artifact (OOPArt) is a term coined by American naturalist and cryptozoologist Ivan T. Sanderson for an object of historical, archaeological, or paleontological interest found in a very unusual or seemingly impossible context that could challenge conventional historical chronology by being "too advanced" ...
Out-of-place artifact - Wikipedia
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Out-of-place_artifact
Energy cattle, the letter M
The soul trap the moon collects souls and there's a harvst...there is a syatem or a construct that is lunar that takes a soul and gives it amnesia and puts it back into a body without giving it a total life review...that's why the number 13 and the letter M is everywhere
The Fantastic Imagination George MacDonald things to put together like the pieces of a dissected map
If he be not a true man, he will draw evil out of the best; we need not mind how he treats any work of art! If he be a true man, he will imagine true things: what matter whether I meant them or not? The best thing you can do for your fellow, next to rousing his conscience, is--not to give him things to think about, but to wake things up that are in him; or say, to make him think things for himself. The law of each is in the mind of its composer; THAT we have in English no word corresponding to the German Mährchen, drives us to use the word Fairytale, regardless of the fact that the tale may have nothing to do with any sort of fairy. The old use of the word Fairy, by Spenser at least, might, however, well be adduced, were justification or excuse necessary where need must.
man may, if he pleases, invent a little world of his own, with its own laws; for there is that in him which delights in calling up new forms--which is the nearest, perhaps, he can come to creation. hen such forms are new embodiments of old truths, we call them products of the Imagination; when they are mere inventions, however lovely, I should call them the work of the Fancy: in either case, Law has been diligently at work.
A fairytale, like a butterfly or a bee, helps itself on all sides, sips at every wholesome flower, and spoils not one. The true fairytale is, to my mind, very like the sonata. We all know that a sonata means something; and where there is the faculty of talking with suitable vagueness, and choosing metaphor sufficiently unhorsed, where mind may approach in the predication of something more or less contenting consciousness. But if two or three men sat down to pin each down as to what the sonata meant, what approximation to definite idea the result? little more than needful. We should find probably not one common thought. Has the sonata therefore failed? Had it undertaken to convey, or ought it to be expected to impart anything defined, anything notionally recognizable?
Susanopathy Investigation of a Fairytale
1. Linger Yet Awhile
He was driving down McDowell with the windows open to take the air. This is the highway that runs right round the world dividing it in two parts. McDowell compasses ley lines, gateways and the hundred pieces of Isis in the poison world of our tale where THE NATIONS SOUTH OF MCDOWELL ARE EATING SUSAN TONIGHT
Ms. OOps had had a breakin some previous night. This wasn't exact because there was some question about her coherence. The phone to which the patrol report came said there was a missing bead collection. Such high fare would be scheduled for answer in coming weeks if at all, except there was nothing else to do. He had already driven the length of McDowell, green lights the whole freakin way past start ups and thrifts, meat packers and secondhand furnitures, beauty parlors and Mexican diners serving frijoles and huevos. There was little trust in the chicken any more or in the human DNA burgersturimos. Along with inventing vegan gas and car technology to pass the time, Dave was so bored he was monkeying with G. Manly Hall about the 33 degrees from the Paris Meridian. Hall says that there elite civilization has “a sacred, secret destiny.” But that my friend is not just Phoenix, that is exact McDowell; it runs right down the center. Two sides to every secret. Steroes, endoscopies, tacos, Ollie Vaughn's eithiop, carnicerias, zumbas, tortas, limos, plum repair, llanteras, bi-low dentist uniforms cross this section in the universe of lines with Pi x 33! The impact is astonishing. They all swear by what the sages wrote around the Mareotic Lake. They swear by women superhuman, swear by the flyin Swift of the X, Dave was thinkin. Why don't they land at Mr. Hermon again and finish the mystery? PiX! Ambiguity magnified in the other, nuts, we crack the kernel.
If it takes a while to oppose these scare tactics, certain elements are worth exploration. There was another competitor for the story, one Aldrich Something or Other writing for the DP Publica. His Nixies of Brunhild had not come out. Gershom Aldrich declared that the reptilian humanoids trapped in Austin and Tucson and other capitols could not escape. DewPit of course was less contained by the elements and escape could be had in any direction. Instead of volcanoes, glaciers and ice foes, it had towering Haboobs and microbursts. Temps over 110 kept the locusts at bay. The caliche was like an ice plain except for the heat. Aldrich worked three part time jobs, but kept the police scanner tuned. He heard dispatch to Dave Cash as he pulled up to Damer's hut.
The first report on Dame Oops house said that it was so scorched that there must have been a fire. This is inaccurate. Hard crusted limestone covered the blackened chimneys. Maybe it was guano. Zoning was lax in the day. The building had been condemned and boarded up before that. Enterprising citizens had also boarded up the entrances and exits of the canal ditches to prevent burglars, so there was no longer any citizen patrol. Aldrich disclosed the five gallon buckets of motor oil stored under citrus, which shows what kind of reporting goes on in the Parallel. A sort of a diptych, Aldrich had taken to listening to Milton on tape inside his four wheel turnip, seeking moments of inspiration. He was composing a song for a local group called, The Crescents of Asphalt,
ribbons of light the transcendent zone
arched roof Pendant
by subtle Magic shown,
many a row Of Starry Lamps
and blazing Cresents fed
With Naphtha and Asphaltus
light from a radar bed.
“The creatures outside looked from cow to man, and from man to cow, and from cow to man again; but already it was impossible to say which was which.”
As far as the relation between Turk and his paramor, witness reported in memoirs the battles between those lovers around whos heads and feet cups and saucers and demoest objects broke. Mirrors, foundtain pens. they loved each other that much, the perfect Oedipus couple. He was Siegmund the perfect Wagnerite, she was a Polish governess as might have been said his wishes came to be polarized. It was a strange conjunctiono that admits of the mental and chummy. Her favorite month was May. Eiogjt fold polarities among pantheists and vitalists, transcendentalists winging their giddy flights to the dark core of the sun. It was not just taking sunbaths but under the pine trees librating into her soul neither did the neglect the vegetables, the carrots and the squash. Nor Wordsworth sitting his gold grey stone in the vernal wood, but the daisies in Plato were a matter for their positive and negative vegetable platters. In their cups they fed peppermints to the pots, big dark promiscuous novel pairs. Horses and cows very female had a soothing effect on them. When they sit with their heads in their sides milking they were very solaced. As said, as they milked Susan they gazed into her eyes. This prepared for the tragedy in every cow, for had their been comedy and milk along there would have been naught else to say.
But I leave this primitive plumbing for the simple serious spiritual inelegant creatures they are who try to see something beyond this world, Marie Antoinette's with their milk pails who croon as they go ver mi hiu ravo na la vo, and again It was in Phoenix that we met Susan who had been fed pumpkins to much success Susan among the dances Susan upon the berm, fore than timeless, the symbolic beast of of the great ages looked aupon with reverence, triple life-sizeunable to travel interstates.in Mack trucks boyo, whether in Cambridge or Iceland or dead, the cow will be there among the anthropologists engaged in worship, the cows of peace and plenty. Here I am with tis cow and this grass, what better to enjoy lucidity. Susan is not so much the creature of the civilized as the wooden cow of Crete. Cows and pines, drum and dance, if Susan the black cow had gone o her nest among the trees for the night, but cows don't eat much at night. Then Susan will wander with Miss Lucy to the moon.
For real, neither believed. DewPit City sits right atop the intersection of grid lines N. Latitude 33.30.3, same as Bermuda Triangle. Remotes view it with the chakras of Painted Desert and beliefs of Third Mesa Hopis aligning with the stars in Orion's belt. It takes a while to absorb these scare tactics. This is proven from the Gadsden Purchase and the lights of Arriva
That other competitor for the Case of Missing Beads, Gershom Aldrich Sumer, an archeologist writing for the DP Publica. His Nixies of Brunhild had not come out. He was the one who first said aid the ley lines werewhacked, some think they follow Grand Ave to Wickenburg, others that GPS confirmations go right down the center of McDowell, the magic dividing line of that whole region. This would justify the old belief in the 1800s that the Dutchman mine imported Rhine Maidens to Dewpit to make hay among the dudes. I tell you the 33rd parallel does go right down the center of McDowell! Everything south after a grace period of one street is the Cannabinol Zone. Google maps and topographies, give electrogravitic proofs that this is the most potent gateway in the northern hemisphere. A neutral observer might take proviso with the fume of poppies, but any time one borders the 33rd a reader should recall the experience and be grateful to be spared. Aldrich declared that the reptilian humanoids trapped in Austin and Tucson and other capitols could not escape. DewPit of course was less contained by the elements and escape could be had in any direction. Instead of volcanoes, glaciers and ice foes, it had towering Haboobs and microbursts. Temps over 110 kept the locusts at bay. The caliche was like an ice plain except for the heat. Aldrich worked three part time jobs, but kept the police scanner tuned. He heard dispatch to Dave Cash as he pulled up to Damer's hut.
It is always mentioned that the goats were witness in this gossiping. A great deal of goat written down like gnats in a storm, after the ram blew its horn, was information in the only good talk this world permitted, that is, where someone who seeks consolation for creatures can’t reach the phone. Our masters in administration without the images of creatura in office can be fearful, but we are not in the field. The phone tied to Damer’s little dogs that sang from the defunct car made their readings heard on Mars! Crowds gathered on the walk to hear SueQ when she came home. Up and down the block their talk vented paperbacks but you must pour the creatures out. As dispatch says, learn to turn so that you may be turned towards. Emptiness causes other miracles which are not yet stored.
The concealment of Dave Cash researching multiple tasks is explained at the same address confronted with Miss Sue and stalked by Aldrich Watsit. Are we going to ask him to indict for cannabinolism? Is this a trail that leads to London Bridge? What about conspiracy theory, can it lend a hand? These were all concerns of Aldrich talking about Sue as a means of depopulating earth. He wanted to know. Physical vibratisn at a frequency charged with these crossings and transmitters convinced him he wanted to know. Frankly the rest would settle for a good book. Aldrich felt manipulated into a belief system reaching critical mass, that wanted him to think a certain way invented for this (mis)perception. Aldrich thought every belief system likely manipulated with scalar waves to engineer a different frequency, changing brainwaves. Octaves as old as electrosmog supposedly equal perception, depending on what parts of the brain, hid hyperspacial constants as his radio changed at the streetlights. Nuke plants on the grid had hotter nodes, vortexes at intersection points of world grid lines. His view finder configured south McDowell as a hypersapce bi-rhythms, as if natural time tunnels were to open up, if it's not too great a non sequitur. He had worked the case of Frank Lloyd Wright's gridline suspicious that the Russian time portal in Afghanistan connected to East Dewpit. The offbeat US Army dig of Gilgamesh from the Euphrates encouraged this into fifteen dimensions.
2. The Dame of Guapa Pop
Once a time in fairyvale where dogs would love the peckafile there lived three pops of largess. Guapo Myth, Largest. Step Dame Dame, Misologist and SueQ baby who Oops like her dad.. They lived in that house of Ginger Dip, a town that had still not elected a delightsome mayor. In the ordinary world we would stop, but this is no ordinary world.
Her name was Moth.
Her Pop was Guapo Moth
Guapo in his life as Turk fluttered the all night party sloops along the Scottsdale border. Susan looked like him, but she had hair.
Sidewalks cracked when they stood together.
Depressions left by their feet in the park drowned little dogs.
Nobody connected Pop’s disappearance with Dame Belcher’s purchase of a new walk-in freeze. Presumption credits that the Dame, Turk’s second spouse, with too much brew the night that Myth got shanked and smoked. This was three full years before Susan entered the same. Which is why until the process is complete there is always smoke, crackling and contentious between fire and the wood.
Dame Belcher is not so easy to make. There is an inner wok which neither time
nor space can support. She’s not a dragon or a pig even if the tabloids said.
She’s not Medusa if you think, or the big bag wolf. Dame Belcher puts on a name
on not. I’m not saying it won’t come out fair as a star, when only one is
shining in the sky.
For all that they were nice folks. Goats populated piles of debris.
For all that they were quiet folks, never a loud noise unless you count the
chickens or the occasional gaseous emissions.
The belches anyway
were pleasant, made you think you lived off Hoboken where ferries and tugboats echoed by
night.
Into this world, home from the bowling leagues, came Sue.
She rented balls and shoes.
Crowds gathered. Men pinched women and shook hands. Traffic beeped for blocks.
Sue Myth had had the front seat of her car removed so she could drive from the back.
Not that she was tall.
She was wide.
Blocks on the pedals enabled her to pump them up and down.
***
What're you waiting for me to say, that the Step Dame ate the Musselmans? Those mornings showed and nights concealed the bowers where Susan played.
But no joke, as odious as all decay that stops a hole to keep the wind away. W.
Women doing what men
had all along, quartering purple mountains, packaging fruited plains.
That’s an excuse for eating Susan? Developers?
Who pays the taxes, gets permits?
Neighborhoods are
zoned for cannibalism?
Smoke poured from the gingerbread
chimney.
She ate Pop.
She ate Sue.
You still waiting? .
It's a case of provocation and murd.
One day she's there. The next day she's gone. That’s all there is
“She’s
gone, she’s gone, when thou knowest this
thou
knowest the swell carcass Sue Myth is.”
2.
Sue Myths went her way o’er hill and dale, in wagon and under arm to the
Frigidaire’s and pots of Danger Mountain.
It was in the dark moon of January,
cool breezes of light,
porch slivers were quiet,
Susan had not been seen in weeks.
Chickens were silent as canal ditches.
The homeless drifted home.
Dame Fortune wrote, Unmaking.
Freezer humped its blues.
Sixty Watt tramped out the back of Dame Belcher’s hutch. That
sissy bulb was smashed. Hedgerows ran unbelieving. They came in through the
bathroom window.
herself was to be
darling
law and impulse:
Shout, cuidado!
You’d think the glass would tinkle a warning, but it was that new safety glass,
no louder in breaking than fir trees who slipped their feet under plywood
sheets last summer.
How many came is anybody’s guess. an overseeing power
To kindle or restrain.
A syndicate is implied for the body to spread so far.
Wagons and bicycles if not trucks and trains backed up.
And what did the bandits do when they came to that massive barred door, the
freezer room running off the entry?
Go fast, room to room, poke closets and open the cold door?
Sides of beef, chickens hung from hooks?
Look out! Look out!
Or was it packed in white, labeled by compartment by Glendale housewife, roast under veil,
loin in the defroster, veal?
You only see it dimly.
Freezer light’s not bright.
You best see it quickly.
No place linger winter nights.
Quick hands roust the white packs.
Up on boxes, down the hooks!
Fat sausages or arms?
What hams?
Dread Gorgon!
Susan
of the smoke and a cloudy day!
Susan who stood the walk and could have been a ghost.
Hundreds who never dreamed their expectations that-a-way.
The stars of midnight
shall be dear
To her; and she shall lean her ear
In many a secret place
Where rivulets dance their wayward round,
And beauty born of murmuring sound
Shall pass into her face.
We cannot know how the lost peasant afflicts our time. Thirty five RedRidings, ninety Tom Thumbs, Blue beard's brides all six of them on the wall. They lacked a freezer then, the moral beyond the formless apprehensions of human appearance in their devouring. Again, such stories are meant for cannibalizing psychoanalysts to look at their impoverished minds. Be comforted. It's a dumb show by which you know the murder of the world. Cinderella, Riding Hood, SueQ must not know what troubles us most, so our dear goferment restores the pleasant to bury fear. Invite a good meliorist to lunch. Devouring gingerbread out of house and home. Who's been eating my house! Naw it ain't a kid. Banks invented oral fixation Aschenputtel, Drizella, Cinderella. SueQ devoured by the wolf and world have little history except eating and consuming cultures. Not that Phoenix had a secret destiny, no not that.
In this true story Dame and Suzie came over and sat on the berm. They had a basement in their adobe.
What else was there to do, but count the beehives in the hollow trunks? The birds made such racket one could hardly sleep anyway.
The great religion of Susan is a belief in the blood, in flesh being wiser than mind. Susan was pleased whose blood flowed as milk without impediment, for she had no mind, she didn't even know knowledge. She didn't know Dave Cash was a gentlemen on two feet. She comes out in a trance relieved to be trotting home with that jerky coy gladness. Where she is when she's in the trance nobody knows. That's Susan. We have relation with her perfect devotion and symbol of good mindlessness. Ancient alienation, discord eats or being eaten combines the inherent brute with natural order. Winter and cannibalism the victor swallows, not just heart but liver and lung, the breath of people, kiwakae in the woods, creatures that eat others, counter culture myth of eats consume an atmosphere of lung, smoke, seas of pissants who chew their shoulders when all else is done, signatures common to all continents the distress of that nature murderous, metaphor of famine and ritual. The cannibal Dame in baleful urgency distinguishes no food but commerce and greed to the gram, for after all they could always make more, an over beaver and under bear among endemics, capitalists right down to the hips and shoulder which witigo we call Susanopathy, the ultimate fairy tale where fairy eats the fair. They ate their own and knew it not. Plastic realities of myth in ice, fairy tales infect the culture gods and original sin stored up in undndgrnds.
Relays boost to pickups.
Wholesale all the day.
Others rush to grandma’s.
Bang Susan in ice chest.
Slam girlfriend's fridge.
Sneak her in Mom’s Westinghouse, Here in this happy dell. something must be revealed.
White paper covered the deed of the Dame, who called police for the missing,
freezer empty, her bead collection on the floor that night. The memory
of what has been, And never more will be.
3.
Patrolmen filled out the case card. Next
day,
Detective Dave Cash came with nothing left to do, peace broken out. That
night’s initiative Step Dame let him know.
No warrant was needed to investigate a crime. If you have not made fifth
level contact with the orbs, then what are we talking about? Between
the tangled hair and icy crusts descended down from tuft to tuft who pierces
through the world?
Living room led to dining, dining room to kitchen, en passant to freezer, solid
eight by ten.
The Officer hesitated at entry. Satan must have been cast out head first
to stick stuck in ice--- jacked in two
dimensions, times.
“They took all your meat?”
“Yes, they did! My daughter’s missing and I can’t find my plates!”
“Have you filed a missing person report?”
“No sir, she’s gone! After all the trouble I took in getting her right!
What can I do now?” All these guys try to learn it from a book. IT'S NOT
IN A BOOK
“Well, Ma’am, you can file a missing person report and if she doesn’t turn up
in thirty days we can give her to the FBI.”
“No, no! She’s not missing like that! She’s gone!”
The
officer advised Step Dame of her rights.
Alarm spread our city.
An APB for meat.
Freezers were sought by mothers seeking Susan.
The purveyors thought it a joke. A somersault reversal of gravity,
immobilized in ice, a fall displaced the land and pushed it north.
Weathermen puzzled on the news:
“What goes east and west
and north and south
but never stays the same?”
Children riddled at bus stops:
“One, two, three,
four
Who’s behind the white door?”
It was the eighth wonder of the world in a town that had a spa.
If you live like figs you know a strong wind can litter the ground
3.
Ring the bell and bury scarabs, joust with road kill, chollas, spines. Then the ball will Lobate scarps and we should say, it’s cool. Blanketed by the ejecta, nibelungs, it bulges at center like a drunk Mercator. Pat a cake and put it in the pitty hands of crater rims. Fracture crude polygonal struts. The spongy mammet bursts its top. Hasty-witted codpiece! Saucy fen-sucked pigeon-egg! Muddy-mottled punk! Prick-eared pignut! Moldwarp! Confusion now hath made his masterpiece! the old is dying and the new cannot be born; interregnum symptoms appear. Cube 3D printer, black synthetic digital programmable matter, technological transmutation of metals to gold digital organic transhuman beasts that come out of the pit to merge in digital air the dna world. defraging the genome, a tautology announcing ipsology, pluralization of the self through a narcissism other.
Somewhere banged an ice chest, our paper flubbed the news.
Who called police, Miss Sue Miss-ing?
Mr. Petrolman filled out the card for insurance forms. His name was Norm. Next day, Dave Cash detected peace had broken out, the result of that night’s alarm.
Step Dame let him in. The newspaper called her that Doo Wop. No warrant investigated crime.
Kn to Q1! Bang, he pondered entry at dawn.
Living room by kitchen, dining room eight by ten.
“So they took your meat.”
“Yes, they did! My daughter’s missing and I don’t know why.
Mars, to earth.
There's a crime in the missing purse!
“Have you filed a missing purse report?”
“No sir, She’s gone! After all the trouble I took to get her right! What can I do now?”
“Can‘em and dry’em, and smoke’m up too, put up proper QLit is for you!”
I discovers it.
“Well, Ma’am, like I said, you file a missing purse report and if it doesn’t turn up in thirty days we can give it to the FFBI.”
“No, no! She’s a miss, but not that! She’s gone!” Susan!
jump on a chair and hold the map upside down. Who can journey through? The water wars against the pot and global contract. To fight the dripping pan and explode at will, a dish clout founded with the Giga Dish on one hand and Titan on its cobalt hole another. a Bilbao conjuring windmills on both sides of the architecture fish . . . the world as project idea world as whale. Susan dead about forty hours, had started to decompose, Sue "bathing" inside the rotten stomachs believed to have started in then, years before, for the warmth and fumes generated by the rotting carcass had healing while the interior retains a little warmth, a hole is put through one side sufficiently large to admit the lower part of whose feet to the waist should sink in the whale's intestines, leaving the head, of course, outside the aperture. "The latter is closed up as closely as possible, otherwise the patient would not be able to breathe through the volume of ammoniacal gases which would escape from every opening left uncovered. It is these gases, which are of an overpowering and atrocious odour, that bring about the cure, so the whalemen say. Sometimes the patient cannot stand this horrible bath for more than an hour, and has to be lifted out in a fainting condition, to undergo a second, third, or perhaps fourth course on that or the following day." baleen whales (Mysticeti) straddling the flank of the river, ethereally reflected through metalic and aqueous surfaces, evoking majesty and freedom of the deep sea, far away, but also with all that history has endowed the Leviathan. Pitch, fat, and hair boiled together and made into cakes were put into the mouth of leviathan.
Our officer advised a yak.
Mabinogs began to chat.
We have not assayed the meaning.
She vas big, I tell you that. Her chair flirted with a two-story big. Sometimes we call between the chair and the wall, but no dialogue relieved the sagging floor. You ate Suzy Q & you worry about Goats, the Universe? Put in those four hour jobs or leave goat gossip for another time. Sing with the wasps: their ditty is:
♪♪ Ecoplasm Earth ♪♪
♪♪ Ecoplasm Earth ♪♪
4.
Why it should be at all must be from their hope of deliverance or refuge from what they feared, the same as in all times more and more put their hopes in organs outside themselves, which externals were the state owned and run security of Homeland such. In a pretty short time thee systems had evolved.
OK, I wasn’t searching microfiche. I made the whole thing up. It was just two fatties on the berm who left dents in the ground. I know this much, her name was Jane-ga, or Ganja, but I changed it to Guap. She did actually work nights. The red Olds, the car that smoked, that's nothing weird. How it morphed into what later was a fire we hear. There was so much smoke at dawn that crowds of roosters sawarmed the air.
It also said in the article that this was Tuesday, but don’t hold to the date. Not that it was smudged. Sue's routine emerged. The neighbors were watching. What do you think you’d have done?
Who wouldn’t watch a moo cow in their yard? This one had all the arche trim. Éclair Susan was a Great Cow. Bowleanders, this likened her to wisdom. A logical prototype that had ear marks. What have I done but find it out?
She came down like every gawker thinks of soup.
She came down like a dawn of yellow tape, cordoned off, but with sunset arms. When a cow shows up in your dream, consider how you are nourishing yourself.
So by reporting allegory weight and measure, dude, Susan stands for fate, the Greatess that disports the tale. She was that big, point one. Point two, she loved a box. Her demise was cause to consume. A man returning after years of absence would wonder how they could not know. Culpable always blames the past. Culpable fasts and inculpable feasts. One person in the crowd has loosed a beast.
Both thought they were living the Odyssey, descendents let us say, of that hero whose obtuse recommendations were confusing the five microcosms. Since mystics predominant extreme oddities of topography the majority in that town patterned their lives and homes after their antiphonies. They anointed themselves elders in a Council of Watchers to oppose intrusion nemesis from the sky as much as Leviathanmystic nemesis from the sea.
Please finish your sandwiches. Swing your legs over the stile
You better get it going if you know how, because entering the vision as desire comes Ms. Dame, the Belcher we call Fute, the one who married SueQ's dad, G. Mussel Man, called Myth. Well of course he was called Myth, that’s his name! They ate a symbol and were consumed,
Susan should not have lived where she did. No white person dared Danger Mountain parceled out to plain! They saw her largess and loved her. Word went home. Imefikia wamerika! Come to Susan. She is nation! She is woman.
The fence rows of her house were known. At one time she could live in a building like you and me. Sometimes pundits called her Moll. That wall sagged. The phone rang. Those who ate Subsequent Thought Goat exaggerated that goat yak. We leave such gossip till Wednesday. So far assay the big.
Little man sacks behind the Obladee stuck heads out of cars and murmured abu dee.
4. Three Big Oops
I don't know that a blittle back sultry won't help. As long as it's the kind of thing that called the rehab remembrance that tells us something not about man at all, or rather the human, but, and here is where the sticky fit, to calling it multidimensional.
She came down from the footprints of Pegasus, solar night pierced when the cap poked down, off epidermis, down the transplant feed the mind of bio-derm, liver, heart and spleen.
Snow White Riding, Bears and Pigs undressing all the same,
then grandmother wolf ate our Sue, Gretel Gretchen, she ate her too.
So what da ya eat when you eat the Sue, a broadside big as a ham, clerihews, anthologized stew? It’s a cure for what ails. Indigestion? Famine? Drink milk in your poem. Sleep deprived? Hunger? Roast PupPotem in your home. SuZ is a beauty cure. What doesn’t Susie cure? If you had a piece of the bone then the world would be won! One piece, one world, one home!
Suzie! Where has she gone? That’s what we’re here to show.
Once upon a time there were three big OOps who lived in the
town of Dubity.
Turk OOps was the father, Momma OOps was the mother and the baby Oop looked
like her dad. For breakfast the OOps
each morning took a bowl of sausage with ginger snaps stuck in the
side. Spamento wasn’t just breakfast they cooked, but pasties, Ham on Rye, and dinner with TV modem,
forkem in the left, forkem in the right! If you didn’t count the chickens or
the occasional gaseous emissions they were quiet OOps, and that's a first sign.
Our secret came out when one of the goats tied to Dame OOps' bumper began to
blab. Bill, with Nanny and their kids, went abba
daba dab. Dame kept PupPotes in the back seat too, little Schnauzers, a
Pomeranian, and a Pifawa paperback. Little dog OOplets, like PupPOOklets,
longed to be best sellers in OOps. Never
in the Metaverse has this been solved.
Once upon a time in a gingerbread house with smoke coming out the top
Ma OOps fattened up Turk for the kill. That smoke is the last sign. When Turk went up it was as big a loss to little
dogs as it was to OOps. Turk was the source of their food. Why would our Dame
fatten and kill what made her live? Riddle me ree. On the other hand when Ma
OOp hungered she would eat PupPOOte.
Perhaps you can tell what lists of these prove when
Mama belched to Turk about his pounds, for when he and Suzy launched in the
Park their footprints filled with water and drowned little dogs going PupPote.
They did. Ma defended PupPote, the proverbial dismemberment Pups cause. Was it
revenge when they ate the Remains off the floor? There are no special meaning
to Remains, PupPOOte, Park, OOp, but it’s a lot to feed, an OOp to an OOp. Turk
was feeding Sue to Dame! She was the OOp of fame. The Dame of Guapa Pop. It
boggles the mind what Turk got fed as he ate!
In their warning about OOps, in the
opus, OOpem, the goats said these things were digestible, but
everyone knows the mess, the gravy, the meat ball on the wall. The beauty of
our OOpistry is that this tale about Turk and Sue will tell all.
Turk Poseidon and Sue Pegasus/Iphigenia out of Neptune Gorgon Medusa some people called Neptune Turk for his part in the Trojan massacre.
Interlinear glosses and marginal scholia.
Die Antwoord Edoardo Scagliola, illuminated publisher that produces those design superstars Mendini, and Branzi Pop surrealism, the Doolally pop that will eat itself as a circular with no end, told, retold, d, d, where ya eat when you eat and OOp. Sha-ham Yaunty the ninth Ook of Oops! which, if you're that sort of person inured of Ook, which I'd never known had not a period reposted turned up, first you click Ficciones, then click Contes, and if your finger holds out scroll down the right bar for Yaunty snug at the bottom.
Who is Yaunty?
An excuse for Ooks! OOps!
Here’s how: Mix a batch and place in the oven on “ON.” Boil to the nubbin, parcel out the bone. Separate the commercial, things are not the same. Please be careful in how to cook, there seems to be some ShOOkPurse there among the Charon. BOOkhoven, Aesop, Wisdom ROOster and Microfish, in other words Sue 3.0 Macroprint was her name, or Janga before she changed the G to silent J. Guap, as the bio says, "fictional personas maintained by the Artist’s Collective of the New Ibsen Bakery of no known contact except weekends along the canal."
As far as these confessions first began, to confess, there was no fence the day we moved to Bing and two neighbors came over to berm. They had to squat and bend to pass the lemon tree, and that my friend was the beginning of horrors, which ended up sitting on that bank that closed the flood. Those days the whole street and most yards flooded, which spectacle is amazing as this precursor of bonks, now common, for this was years before. They were that rare, so when the first OOpss went to tell the Times they didn't take, and only appeared by accident the year Coop cut off the head and sent the body back, beginning all this much. He said it could always be reattached and sent around again. Round again, round again the OOps have gone, accreting to themselves that wonderful Dame, though the head went out as Guapa Sue. Sue was the epitome of Pop and Turk, her father who became its purveyor and publisher. Neither Turk nor Sue was as large as the putative Dame. This whole family begged to Myth, and so we went in fact at first. But in the real there was no Turk. The two ladies lived alone. Jane was the mother and Susan was the daughter. They inhabited the Globe, meaning it was their summer home.
IN THE
BEGINNING the great Guapa Sue was severed at the desk by whoever knew. The body
lay thus three years until The Dame of
Guapa Pop rejoined. Sue had appeared with Dame as The Remains of Lit and Und on
Shunt and Three Big Ooks. But
oon, POP Head BOOk went to Lawn. This is only mentioned to
spur you on. "Anyway, after it grew the shell the thing didn’t fit, either
because it was too small or it grew,
also likely too big. The protected inner parts bulged out. Dr. Jergen
gave this baby meds to shrink the soft parts back, which worked, but irritated
the shell lining which affects the brain."
Notes:
1. For background consider The Pop Will
Eat Himself and Pop Surreal (Gary Baseman and Mark Ryden
interviews) "mutant ceramics for the X-Men of everyday...Pop, seen as an
evil and without conscience entity, very different from pop art of Warhol! In
fact, this terrible and apocalyptic look
is well caught by E. L. Francalanci in his preface...." See also
Popism, Andy Warhol, "the inside and put it outside, took the
outside and put it in." Do you know what it would mean to display the
inside out? OOp.
2. Consider: Chas Bonnet
Syndrome:
vivid, complex recurrent visual
hallucinations (fictive visual percepts) characteristically "lilliputian" (hallucinations in which
the characters or objects are smaller than normal). The most common
hallucination is of faces or cartoons
From here back up was in pied cow
So when I found my neighbor microfichin' secretly, it shows how far Sue Q had gone was enough to blow the dome
OOpio
In this confusion of myth and fact, when the OOps walked out one evening, I pillaged their beds with Cash, which Mr. Wolf had continually advised not to do. He got flustered when he heard: "Trollhagen, That is VERY UNWOLFLIKE,” he said, “to even go near the OOfs." Pigs bigger than countries had mounted the globe. Was there room? All nations figured in this fute-confusing world. Whoever thought to impose a sentence on it would end the speaking word. This anyway was the central premise of the Shingon-Shū Give Pig A Chance school, that many POP songs declared. Wrapped up in pig, history was free to 万葉集, but that is flarf, which pigs ran a website in Man'yōshū on servers that defended their OOpage. A public relations officer called El OOpio disguised this thought as something else. To quote: "OOPLET DOWNLOADs HERE KA-ZAMM! Which, when downloaded, MOOstrous sentences ate themselves fantastically self-consumed. Which out came from the eight hundred pound Caucasus those utterly mOOstrous appearances downloaded. This occurred in both Sue OOP, pOp OOp, the wOOp OOp and anywhere else word perfect Oops abounded.
But that is not to say, hard as it is, that the OOp cousin, Binging OOp, did not celebrate his Gretyl Strum, a sequel and micro chip cousin, and in Und Meta Drang. These were the trans Germanic OOp to boil the nubbin and parcel the bone. SuZ was real as a pill and dressed as a meal. It feels that good to be beautiful.
13. Fairy Tale Fro Gromets
But back at the beginning of this Cow
Car drive the walls of a Box Car can confound. Doors widened, foundations
reinforce a two story house, with things inside the garage. Put like this the
adage fits that if a car can ride a bus then a house can have a
horse. Half of her slept above, half below. The engine was in her lap,
room, room. A Train whistled out of her nose. They are not even trains! Show
me thy chink to blink through with mine eyne! In that barn another corner
of the house sagged. Good mileage, plenty of gas and a methane return. Sue, escapes the barn. But giants,
there was no wall. In the yard a little red commuter ran up and down blinking.
It had lost a Briefcase. The station master rang the caboose. The caboose rang
the engineer. It was an OOkio Convergence. Word Ops and all references were
deleted. Kansas
was on the way to French camp. The goats would join them there.
And Sue?
Well, we’re just reporting the weight and measure of Panda Sue, Dude. Compare her to a cow or a car. She's big, we know that, but she's Psueda-big too you hope! You think? Go fig. It’s a disguise to consume the unthinkable. What else was there to do? If you wish for a Skyscraper imagine Sue with smoke above the walk and crowds on a cloudy day. Imagine something like barium or prurience coming down. Yellow tape that cordons off aluminum. She could not go on living as she did. Tons dispersed in air. We have to check the maps on this, but no person dared. The President said the Thing was not. So Sue went out for stew. You just need some.
We say that because if the True Word sticks then everybody goes home.
Once upon a time, when the blooming muffin liners on Hoboken came off and portended a Fute that was not what it is, the symbol consumed. There's a lot of special terms, like G. Fute’s name being Mythril.
It made one think again of those Tucks behind the enemy boxes at the Ob-La-Do who said: “Why don’t you just say what we believe?”
But only if you disbelieve can you believe.
Rams with gunfire ran on their horns. Aaba dabadab
Little dogs fired back with juvenile arms.
Monkeys tried to reach Dame Bumper's hop.
Encore! She drove the town.
Whoever could would make us reach the phone, or they’ve already called to say that they aren't goats or monkeys any more!
She’s gone, she’s gone, when thou knowest this!
You goint to get the point someday you miss.
And one moe-thing the song they sang in France was this:
Alle – gor – y,
jaunty Allegory,
Alle - gory,
come to purify.
I will pluck a Guap,
I will pluck a Turk,
Pluck a Turk,
make a Moo,
pluck a leg,
have a rib,
me the chuck,
you the roast,
him that wants
can take the back,
her the front,
allegor, allegot,
O-o-o-oh!
Clicks of the Suzy Q are thus strewn. One hopes these clues lead to the beliefs known, speculated for weeks.
For by the way, the Snoutzer was from Globe
Accounts of this differ on Das ist ein Und, by SueDad, the insurgent.
If you trust they're man and myth or man and daughter, don’t presume to judge them by their weight.
Dame may be bigger than both, who swallowed the Guap!
The first to doubt this were the tabrets and pipes that embroidered blue clothes, azure merchants of sorts, goats of different worlds.
Without serving further microfiche I found in the smudge that it was probably volcano. When she put the pedal down the people looked for fire. Mighty chickens stirred their stars and stripes to sing:
Estaban viendo Susan en su bosa,
trabajó nachos ventila humo,
Porque Un punto digas dedo.
Susana crepúsculo saludó.
¿Crees que eres diferente? caje in el camino?
Dudes call it fate erupting.
I lived some years in Dulce Port myself.
where colonist’s houses were continually fired.
Imagine, firing a colonist!
Winds blew directly through the stilts where they came down like fissures from encampments by the sea.
Put your fingers together to see what that's worth.
Susan was admired by all.
But who can say her demise was caused?
It was just consumed.
Are the worlds not free to fuel the pods of Mars?
Even so Dame Belcher married Sue's G. Turk M.
Then were plied out parcels to a bin.
More came to Susan than got the symbol wrong.
Out on Danger sea G. M. Turk ran the sloops.
Sue looked like him, but she had hair.
Sidewalks snapped like rubber bands before sending space ships in the air.
Holes left by their feet in the park predicted Turk would fall.
It says here 8x10 the night they smoked and froze old Turkey down.
Sure there were frights.
Misfit little dogs had disappeared.
Yes, goats wrote about it with the unlicensed civility of thought.
Clouds of smoke chimnied beside oleanders.
Never a loud chicken, but there was a little gaseous emission.
Belches quite pleasant in the world.
Home from the bowl, came Sue.
Anthropologists had widened the front of her car so she could drive from the back.
Women started doing what men had been all along. Step Dame gave the sign!
Quartering the purple plain?
Do you think this is decay?
That eating Susan should be taxed?
What are you wanting bro, to have the front of your car removed?
In the words of Donnte Zoned, who got permits:
she dared she gone.
“She's gone, she's gone, when thou know this
thou know the swell carcass this world is."
Provocation and murd.
I read that the eyewitness to these accounts of that berm in the yard were three goats tied to the bumper of Damer’s car.
That the biggest ram went abba daba dabaad.
Damer also kept singing little dogs, which only went abbadab, a Pomeranian, a Snoutzer and Pifawa backed original.
So the goats out sang the dogs.
They both wrote books and proems.
The dogs were known to wag a metaverse until it popped; then they would pee-opulate the wilderness.
Myths
Here’s how it went.
Three Myths gathered in a house in Dew Pit, a new Dubity town with a spa and a delightsome mayor.
Guapo Pop was the biggest, but Step Dame couldn't dig it, and then came Baby Sue.
Noli me tangere.
Each myth had a glass of porridge that emitted strange gases.
Their belches made you think of the first sign of this book,
a ginger snap of tawdry fact, unstuck, so we need not accept. Take an application out and win a
voyage to the land of cannibists where this would be set to music.
Which, here’s how it goes.
The Dame was Guapa POP.
Her daughter was Sue Lit.
Her husband was the Turk.
She's Absorptive, hungry
consuming as a blog,
and what is in the pantry? Oh no!
Turk the husband followed this motif, as wait staff to the meal put it out for all to see.
Sue of course delights in all the blab.
She is writing a book of pastry.
Big Und
Turk had emerged from the Big Und half which is Un-dustry except spelled a U, self defined.
I don’t know if that’s a sign. We say Ublishing.
There’s no delicate way to say Turk made books.
Proverbial dismemberment was the verbiage of Dame’s plate.
Grinding noises fell from the pen.
The fab of the year, an inchoate Melville, the offense of Crane, it poisoned her brain.
Now that you have done it and heard the news, an 800 pound man with a 600 pound daughter, who lived with that man’s second wife was swallowed amid the remains.
She ate‘em all.
Sue
Pretty Sue worked nights and drove home from renting shoes.
The aura of her bowling ball vented blue. Houses stuck together in her neighborhood like ten pins. Spare Ley lines tagged in her face.
Coming down the alley on the verge of hearing the news the goal was to throw the ball as close as possible to a small wood cochonnet.
So that you do eat when you eat Sue Q broadside big as a ham, clerihews, anthologized stew,
Riposte is a cure my friend.
Sure, drink milk in your poem.
Sure, Roast Poem in your home.
Sue Q is a beauty cure.
But what doesn’t Sue Q cure?
She is that huge alone.
Get a piece of the bone and the world will be one.
Where has she gone? The silk road?
How was it done?
That’s what we have shown.
Once upon a time in a lightsome town with gingerbread spa and Damer’s third chimney, "count'em," said The Mayor, smoke poured.
That was the third sign of the book. Three more are coming.
Did you know where Turk went?
Back into Und?
Do you know where he did go?
Up the chimney.
How does that feel?
Results
Turk, the scion of Ublishing was a party poop who hadn’t lost his stuff.
He squealed and squelched at his taking off.
But when Turk went up it was a loss to Und and little dogs who seek the OOps as much as we do the truth.
If you think there’s more to this you’re bright. 4
(Sign! Fourth Sign!)
On one hand, when Guapa Pop got fat (she is after all, The Dame!), that and the warning of little goats was hard to bear.
On the other hand
Eating Pop is messy.
Things wind up on the floor.
Little dogs eat digestibles,
PupPoet gossip, hear.
Once when all small animals had disappeared and Und had made a song,
they all sang a guapa-ing to Sue when she came home.
Crowds gathered and traffic beeped for blocks.
It's no joke that Hotel Damer ate the OOks.
And these are just the ordinary signs. 5
Women doing what men were doing all along, littering the plain.
That’s an excuse for eating Sue. OOps! 6
She ate him.
She ate her.
That’s just it.
Pay the rent.
Now you gone and eaten some. Aesop?
It was that big.
“She’s gone, she's gone,
the moon and the sun,
the stars in the sky,
they know the reason
why she’s gone,
yes, when she’s gone.
Now she’s gone.”
Jack Bommb in his pickup whistled all that day:
Remember the time we sneaked her into Mom's Westinghouse!
“They took your meat?”
Susan packed in white.
Repeat.
Yes sir my Susan’s gone.
They opened up her roaster, defrosted freshened veal.
Remember how our city feared packed up in sacks to syndicate, fenced wholesale all the day? Relay back to pickup,
Yes sir my Susan’s gone.
To grandma’s house we fridge!
Bang! Bang!
Susan of a cloudy day!
They froze her down.
Call Westinghouse.
See dim. See quick.
Fat sausage arm de ham!
It shall stop the nose of passengers.
Step Dame de Vat
The third party ex, Step-Dame Desire, es harder to ascribe.
She wa dat foam where they would bury Gog.
Hermetic uncon, she wa dat by-primal urge.
Take a course and find it out.
Gingerbeck!
Gingerbrick.
Look like the H but be the H+ under.
Big Susan lived in Gingerback––
Why don’t we know what she do?
Ubermensch uber alles! OoP.
Can a OOp read? Ooh!
You don't know what any of this means. Spinners in spider land, leaders when the plant explodez, wiedersehen gods hooked up, Abimelech loved to show. “The think, the think,” they chant, electric drills were clamped against their teeth.
Every Jet altered.
Fire come down.
Think it out,
Pop a whim,
wash it out immigrant
Alloutte Oooh!
SUE Q!
Hung down
the equator round with Entrants stretched.
She wore a yellow ribbon. Now take it one by one.
and live before it sees, especially if it knows the pattern in its mind before the made unmade. Folds and curves make shadows cast, which seem to move on point of view, high hopes and dreams, improbable curvilinear figures not quite named.
OOps in OOpem is a true story. Dame and Susan came over and sat on the berm. They had a basement in their bode. Guapo, Guapa, Damer, Turk, SueQ turn out to be large mythogemes like ocean eggs.
19. Thought Goats
Here is what the Thought Goats said, but they neither hear or spell too good.
Ooks
"Ego, Id, Oedipalism, Anima, replaced the fairy folk of the country in the confines of the city. Trolls, brownies, Leprechauns, pookas doff their country costumes for the abstractions of new folklore." The Characters
In Miss Q’s Marble Class, Myth was first the publisher, Nuke-NWK reduplicate, called UndPrint UND in funky garb, which then became recombinant Egenerate G.
He got known as Halfling Talk which romance shortened down to Turk. T-Turk Mth was called SQuawk as much as from his weakness for verse, written out in Goat. The text says he walked the park with his Fute, which rhymes with NWK, superfluous floof not derm, as far as that goes, but equally photogenic S-Q implied a filial reference building in the nook (NWK): Putpote.
Also though, the Park is langua Health, and there we get to Guapa’s name. In Saxon gape or galp called ShhhG, or Guapa Sue, is Continent wifi bubbles with cranial caps to ferret out unsilent talk, EEGs of intended speech that suction cup a heartbeat, tele-presence snatched live through neural.
Und Park, Talk, Gape, Turk and Sue shape the sonic imprint of this giant ground.
A PARK which indentation swells and footprints swamp
with rain, a meta-smear that drowns,
shut down when depressions fill.
Unmined the water stands.
Endangered nouns, the dogs of speech,
lick gates of giant Und and drown.
Track PUP-PEDS to the pit below,
the severed head is closer than before.
Industry, obesity follow Und and Sue.
You get sauce and a chance with Q.
Little Dogs Lost make
sad the book
compared with what may hap to Halfling's Dirk
(change names, protect innocent, make minds).
Pup Pots from the great cubed furs of Und and Gape
were Gorged.
Graduate, confront thy fear.
She ate, she ate, when thou
knowest this…
thou knowest the finale appetite that is.
Flagons waving for the moment seem like gubment verse. UndPrint’s wife, that AWESOME DAME.
Mystery Meth kept house for Und and Q,
But Step Dame however slaughtered them and stored the first.
AWK is the appropriate response to this Tale.
We ask if it matters to question what she did?
She killed the cow and ate SueQ,
both Und and the very thing that fed us, Mouse.
Take off epidermis, down the bio-derm.
Down, down the transplant filters rid and take off hearts and mind.
They need a second Headless boy without a brain, free from spellbound livers, hearts and spleen, that is unless we transplant one for fun. Escape, escape, escape again. You have a hard time counting all the shells. You get sauce and Q, though Und endangers all.
So let La Belle Dame censor ship think her bull pit sides
call om upon the World.
Macro Pit is all of space consumed.
Rising out the pit, Dragon Strike le dangers many lives.
Hungry appetite of kind. That’s the alloutte behind.
diffugient
diastomate
deponate
delaminate
How dat for feeling pits?
How deep for pits, the import swalled,
prat amnesty fulfilled and gonne?
Shunt
Sue pickled out with Pompey's head of Print what then consumed.
Add to these ingreedients Bob SHUNT,
oblivious from the front, but wherefrom came this fleshy man?
They came the thigh bone severed knee that hung in
Damer’s freeze. Down sped the beak, the hook, the claw.
Daddy UndPrint and Darling Lit may
look like chickens hung from hooks, but hand those boxes down. They look like
jaws. They took the sausage man.
Ham is ipod, sausage igod, flash is Gorgon drive.
Of handmaids and their maidens dressed,
less
left of Turk than Sue from late besetting Wii.
Windows swived them down.
I tell strong bodies Und and
Lit went broadband over Shunt,
Then dispersed to crowds.
We have to soothe.
Shunt means electric wights and people thinking
to reproduce.
Little ghostlings,
ebemouths kept like mastodons in ice, goliath herds.
Niced Allegory shunt-conveyed.
At first that's right from dungs, reported Vice.
You think that’s funny but it’s not,
the record's in this
pot.
If all that’s left but bone on our home world, then Shunt, the genome frozen in Dame’s home was devastated when it was stolen.
Exhumed from freeze that genome thief where inland-border virtual mind got Shunt Palyatcheed, the evidence gone, Damer probably thought she’d live off it a thousand years, gave no thought to dinner disappeared.
The motto here inclined is that a cavernous
lack of planning might not survive.
Ultimate E pub Shunt.
Both torsos live. Vispo, lang po, wii wo, woe fo, combined in one, by Inter-et Alone distributed IA, AI.
Do you accept the pun?
But more.
Inter-oooh!
What remains of Lint combined as
Talk and Gape (to us, old stew), E-GENATE.
So here they come again.
Recombinant genera of fish and game we know.
But what do we call this redigesting craze,
reconsumed as Shunt’s closed loops, solipsists and their troops?
Recombinant Dame?
The frozen remains?
Exactly what
became of NWK’s demise?
Put like this, had
Halfling Talk been half enough we’d not have had SuZ on Shunt.
15. Afterword on the Imprints of Und
This thing has been compared to genetic Uping, images scanned to virtual fit cut way at birth. The turnip remains struck in flesh lives a way. Which rolled Poe and engendered Pound until SueQ got old but she still had hair, senescent the older she begot, reverse evolution was her po(e)t.
You see why Hydrocephalic Giants in socks book the Great Und. In city canyons they breed more mutants like themselves than they can eat. Their minions care for them then tidy up to see the giants pop.
Invisible giants are social nerds. We use colorants to catch them in a net to squirm from gravitation, but the best sign of tried true undertracks, those imprints at the head whose pallor looks a lot like caps will squirm, for Encephalapod stalks are tough. Their bone littered dens and besotted hydrophobic bits are cleaned by little dogs.
They eat poets to that end and wit and blurb suffice to make more farms where these can grow. Mouthful Feeding Anomaly consumes them bit by bit. The more they eat the more they get. The question for little dogs is how to make the giants fit.
Giants slay worldwide with encephalitic reality. Footprints on earth are not sole. If you follow footprints on the moon, expect a hole. To cast that hole, produce a slump. At meteor crater, impact space twists out. They’re so big they’re hard to see, surrounding all the folds of metaverse confined...while we lead ordinary lives.
Another sign of giants whose quantity increases from many farms is obesity. These consume, for giants feed their cows and tinkers of the day with artificial feed as we do herds. Don’t graze unpastured as they used. In feedlot libraries and slaughterhouse U’s, mind flesh perused, the monoploid eats.
That leaves behind a lot of walking sticks. In building basements respect the mind they say. Better cuts of mind meat professors of mind consume. It takes a sheet to catch the wind.
In Encephalic Family Und each discipline aids the dole. Science more active than po(e)ts, religious schools galore and industry on larger scale make populace grow eight times eleven today, tomorrow. Giants feed fast, but market too much food, measuring pOp by feed.
Eat more, eat more, they plead until you pop. The solution is create more colonies. Then other planets may be assigned. No food is greater than this need.
Plum-pup sugar tit,
birth squirm scrubs,
squibs ask not what to do
with language weaned of.
16. A Note on the Text
This text was left by an author called El Ephod, a pen name no doubt interlineated, where glosses and illustrations overwrite the original, which process another treatise beneath is required to describe. This overwriting cannot be duplicated here. A fair copy traced on first exam, was saved from the cataclysm, which text by El Ephod is threes times written over top of each. A treatise would be required to describe the gloss and illustrate the original. In the words of the author, das ist ein und.
17. Guapa, Guapa, Guapa, Guapa, Guapa Sue
We always mention the goats in their gossiping. A great deal of goat thought was written down by gnats after the ram blew its horn. It couldn’t reach the phone. The phone had an extension to Damer’s little dogs who sang from the defunct car. Readings could be heard on Mars! Crowds gathered on the walk to hear when Sue came home. Readings up and down the block vented paperbacks.
Therefore I want to tell you once again about the neighbors south. Let's be polite, this is Dave Cash again, no joke, a moocow in the road. You may know her by her other name philosophers and scientists read. She's that big, could live in a dorm like you or me, doors widened, or her chair was a two-story bed, to give her an entire wing. But walls have phones in that world. They listen in. And phones have ears.
We opened this investigation of Guapa Sue when no white person dared walk on Danger Mountain. Sorted down to the nubbin, parceled out they saw largess and loved her. Word went home. Susan will enable your supernormal power, speech and sight. Guapa-roo!
Cow speech, goat thought reverts that shaman tongue gone prospecting with spades and boots. As a writer Susan gave the text some rays and language universals, in other words muck men. What about goats? What about chickens? What about asses?
Once an ass would speak, it will not stop. Chickens also churn their stripes. Cows jealous, Fried Nietz thought we all were happy cows. Cow poets and chicken ficts. Is that cute little donkey a mule or a poet? Believe it not that we could answer this. Do you wonder why they looked for fire when she drove up in their midst and waved? They were proud that Mercury had crossed both lanes of the county line.
You ate Susan and you think there are problems with Russia?
I'll tell you why they ate her dude.
Science had a pickle-plasm.
When kindreds gathered at Sue Opps curb it was not so different from Loki and Wagner in the library stacks. Boxes round the 7-11’s took a view. Peepo storked and Lydia cried.
The only blind mammal is a man, unless an ass can see this vulgar cosmos uncoverse. That would be the commerce in the fig, Gog rolling nude mosquitoes, and white haired samurai.
The ass sees with immunity what scientists think. We're getting up a song to sing, a meing, mooing, mewingmuling.
Eat a mountain, quaff a sphere
without losing market share.
Otra vez,
there was a hairless manscaping man who ran an Unlimited
Party on the Scottsdale boards.
Epic is closer to unseen than told.
Scale an inch to the worlds below.
Susan looked like him, but she had hair.
Sidewalks cracked the hood.
They needed scuba lungs.
Equanimity fell like lightening bugs.
Antiphony pricked for truth
that night Turk got smoked.
Susan left the neighborhood.
Little dogs disappeared, which varies with UV use.
Thought goats, those inscrutable plastron shields populated with growing piles of ribs, cleavage and cups, ventral through the ages ran.
There was never a loud chicken without a fabulous admission in Hobook.
In this familiar world when tugboats and fairies got tight, freeways poured.
Step Dame ate the Musselmans?
Shout cuidado!
Look out sides of beef,
chicken claws on hooks.
Somebody should write a book.
Was it all packed compartmental,
white where I can’t tell
if it's Proust under veil
or so long in the self-defroster, self veal?
Freezer freezer burning bright!
No place linger winter nights.
Quick hands roust the white packs.
Up on boxes, cold the hooks!
Fat sausages and hams.
Gorgonzola.
Susan rode her wagon a hundred realized ways!
Guapa Sue is drilling today.
Some fence to wholesale all the day.
Others slam the fridge! A girlfriend bang!
Sneak Westinghouse in there.
Our paper cocked the deed.
A decorator's mighty fig.
Damer next day.
En passant would take the Queen in megabites.
Mom sought Susan. Called police.
Purveyors thought the joke was
“What goes east and west
and never stays the same?”
“One, two, three, four
Who’s behind the white door?”
Lit Furst
Many conundrums Confuc lit first with classic talk, but not to bediddle Myth, Guapo stands for Unpublishing. He is the “fadder” of SueLit. She is the poetry myth. They are all Guaps. That much is clear in the bigotry.
You may call what she stands for a byproduct itself. SueLit! That’s unless you think lit comes up from the boot and not down from the hat which, toots, we mean. You can’t have one without the udder. Booty and things all make up the song.
The third part in gigantico step Dame Big Hug, appetite and real desire, harder to ascribe, primal urge, prurient veiled that consumed Sue Lit and her Dad, Big Und. Undad! Big Unddy! Like a palace in Africa made with serious toot. These are questions that Susan Lit brought home to Dame in that gingerbread big house. Why didn’t Sue note what Step had going on?
Sue see was an immigrant from France. She could sing Alloutte. It was a bit of luck. But there’s more there is. She’s from Globe, a little place that spins itself where nobody knows. On its symbolic top is a nacho like a hat, but on the literal Globe genome the T shirt, SUELIT it says, right below:
SUE LIT
Interprets Mythogeme
This more than hinders the more it helps because Round SueLit stretch lines at pumps and underneath in pits. We know the truth, but we better not give it out. On the front was the back and on the back was this poem. It stretched all down her boing.
mythogomists know,
mythogomists past,
reemergent
Mythogeme Net
talk Myth
tall Guapa Myth
advert this
Step Dame
consumed SueLit,
GuapUnd.
Sue’s immigrant
years on Globe,
stacked her chest
with plumes of smoke:
S E L T
U I
Who's to blame? Preverbs poisoned the brain, the flab of the year acclaimed. She ate ‘em. Now you done it. Lit biz not all glam.
Susan worked nights and rented balls and shoes. Then came rubble, empties on the roof, take out, weird eruptions in the tale. Pickles. Not just breakfast. Lunch was major. Ham on Rye, read by schools. Milk shakes till the Dairy dry. Pickle nasty as before. No steamed lettuce or pork. Dinner? You want it. Defer appetite, coup de grace. Turn on appliance. Chang the ditties going left. Row Your Boat, not chanticleeric rooster going to bed.
That left the goats who talked Billy, nannies and their kids, Kinder, Kendall and Don, yule goats tied to Damer’s Buick, the biggest blab the ram. Who went abab blab adab on the bumper. Damer had little dogs who spoke quatrains most. They went abad,
Dame belching the second sign, reader appetite, Voracious tripppling day and night. Read means eat. A nut you most desire. Appetite cracksers. In common consume. Damer, reader, ate Toot Suite. QED Dame appetite. And Dad, publisher of World Books, retired to aulde syne. Turk made books like he lived off the Carib Coast.
Half of her slept above, half below the line.
Her porch was missing. There was a train crossing. Out of her mouth diesels rumbled at night
Susan wa’ da big Cahune.
saki rocki rune tang
Meine Freund Meine schone
Komm Here
"What do you say that we own a cock to Asclepius?"
Here We Go A Guapa-ing: Four Inter Scholia.
The Text
1. They were nice folks but used their toothbrush to smoke. There was a sense of preservation in it, Smoked.
2. Small animals had disappeared. This does no harm unless you’re one. But animals represent other things, history, events skewered and all that is disobserved.
3. Goats populated piles of debris. This was the old chaos/quincunx mystery and it was ill served.
4. Junked cars grazed among untitled plates. Known gadgets such as temptresses, Imbroglio, pandemoniums were deposed. This all occurred in the Morte Arthure at the Laundroma.
The Commentary
Now you take either side of these equations and develop what you will, the everyday detail filled with sticky fact, at least facts as we know them, or not, or you can take the application side and see in that dimension thousands or at least hundreds of years, Sir Th. Browne reckoned, Edmund Spenser, Toynbee, and first, but not least, the great universal human family. That is to summon allegory and we confess it not. Rather in Myth we get to see ourselves bed smooth.
These four buoys are the nubbin, the nubistic tubbin. But the myth proportion is this: An 800 pound man with 600 pound daughter lived with that man’s second wife. Don’t value them only for weight. The dame slaughtered man got stored remains. Three years redux the daughter. That was the story on the corner.
So must that flesh turnip struck in the head live out the back. Mars’ volcanoes are Pleistocene arbitrage you idiot. Wall St. a mirage. As the Texans rolled her round she engendered Poe and Pound, O’Neill had not the same entropy. Her pedals, do you know? pump the centuries of bike. Now she rides a three wheel. Sounds like she got old. Lit got more senescent the older she got. What did you expect. Pretty soon she’ll ride in a wagon and Lit won’t be drivin, she’ll be a centipede.
Let us explore the mythic fact:
Smoke poured from the Dame’s gingerbread chimney. She and her daughter, isn’t that a joke, daughter, some daughter, like a bread box is a phonester, were quiet folk, never a noise unless you count the chickens or belch.
Now a belch is incapable of too many helps, it longs to be simply understood,
and if you are thinking that a belch is not fine
then you and a rabbit can destined to dine,
the elch is the same as this you see, you just have to add a b.
You can sing, eat and read, this was proven by the committee to frisk. The belches lived off Hoboken On the Water, where ferries and tugboats echoed that buoy of night. These buoys are the nubistic tubbin, but the myth proportion is this: An 800 pound man with a 600 pound daughter lived with that man’s second wife. I don’ value them only for weight. This dame slaughtered a man and stored his remains. Three years later she did the same.
Take either side of these equations and develop what you will, the everyday detail, messy fact filled with stick, at least facts as we know them or not, or you can take the application side and see into the dimension of time the significance of thousands or at least hundreds of years.
The smokehouse century that Dickens predicted and corrected with his chimney sweeps and industrial poverty was early presumed by Blake.
Susan lived with that Step Dame. What more can you ask. To call it Lit folks is a gas.
But the answer to the engines is a bomb’s early light.
All war benefits being new, that coast where snow is soot.
That is called absorbent detail, like parlor paste.
Into this world, home from the bowling league, came Sue. She rented balls and shoes. Crowds gathered in the guapa-ing. Men pinched women and they shook hands with fists. Traffic beeped for blocks.
Susan as an immigrant, we all see that. Where did she come from first? Thanks to the genome surge we know it was from BungenBurg where boy when she came home that’s left. See, SueLit had a shirt proclaimed her Burger Lit
Burglar LIT,
Murder IT.
There was a Lit in turkeys. Who can doubt bird Lit? Who wears the shoes of Lit.
Lit, dressed well this season in a shirt. A long line of people stretched to take their turn in Lit, extended pages you might seek, especially were you to turn yourself.
SueLit had the front seat of her car removed so she could drive from the back. Not that she was tall. She were wide.
Anthropologists! Interested?
Blocks on pedals enabled her to pump them up and down.
So must the turnip of flesh be struck in the head, stuck in the trunk, live out the back. Mars’ volcanoes are an arbitrage, Wall St. a mirage. As Texans roll her around she engendered Poe and Pound, O’Neill, but not the same century. Her pedals pump the centuries of bike. Now she rides a three wheel. Sounds like Lit’s got old. Lit got more senescent the older she got. Well what did you expect. Pretty soon she’ll ride in a wagon and before you know it Lit won’t be drivin, she’ll be a centipede.
This is no joke. Dame Damer eating the Musselmans is a sign of the time. Women do what men do, quartering purple mountains, package fruited plains.
That’s the excuse for eating Susan. Why make it hard to accept. Who pays the taxes, gets the rent permits? Neighborhoods are zoned cannibalism.
She ate him. She ate him. She ate her. He was twice as big. One day she was there. The next she was gone. What are you waiting for me to tell? Go fig.
Studies show prime prairie takes quick claims. That’s no excuse for abusing Lit.. She has lines on her heads that never meet. The disjunct in the center frustrates the rhetoric beneath.
Zoning dad! She ate him! She ate her. Centuries of ignorance.
Once you get a notion you just can’t let go. Virtual being says so. But when it’s done two heads are better than one.
Plu- pup sugar tit, birth squirm squibs, ask not without paper and ink, language and state weaned of Lit.
“She’s gone, she’s gone, when thou knowest this
thou knowest what foul carcass this world is.”
It seems a case of carnal appetite, Dame Damer, had a prior relationship. Her mythological past is unstated.
OOks box carCow
One day these OOks went for a walk in the park and turned them into bears, which might have been an improvement except the bears perhaps would eat the pig, the pig would eat the porridge and the wolf would be faced with the dilemma of which, if it could eat the pig at all, it would have to be as big as a country, as big as a state. In that day, when round countries surrounded the globe, they were too big to chuckle under chin.
Ma OOk had a breakin. There was some question about her coherence. The phone to which the patrol report came said there was a missing bead collection. Such high fare would be scheduled for answer in coming weeks, but there was nothing else to do. He had already driven the length of McDowell, green lights the whole freakin way past start ups and thrifts, meat packers and secondhand furnitures, beauty parlors and Mexican diners serving frijoles and huevos. There was little trust in the chicken any more or in the human DNA burgersturimos. Along with invented vegan gas and car technology to pass the time, Dave was so bored he was monkeying with G. Manly Hall and the 33 degrees from the Paris Meridian, that elite civilization of “a sacred, secret destiny.” That my friend is exact McDowell; it runs right down the center. Two sides to every secret. Steroes, endoscopies, tacos, Ollie Vaughn's eithiop, carnicerias, zumbas, tortas, limos, plum repair, llanteras, bi-low dentist uniforms cross this section in the universe of lines with Pi x 33! The impact is astonishing. They all swear by what the sages wrote. They swear by women superhuman, swear by the flyin Swift X. Dave was thinkin, why don't they land at Mr. Hermon again and finish the mystery? PiX! Ambiguity magnified in the nuts cracks the kernel.
Police in the cannibal zone always try not to know where they are. You understand that in the Fairy Tale reports that come without explanation. We don't want Johnny Cake in our children's minds devouring gingerbread uncontrolled, or in our own ready land to eat out house and home. Who's been sleeping in my bed, eating my house, untamed Aschenputtel, Drizella, Cinderella, SuzyQ? Strange and unfamiliar eats consume. A syndrome for the devouring wolf and world.
It was a cool Tuesday AM. Shards and streamers lit the driver's day, what Robert Fludd would call a fiery cross in the blue. Incandescent streamers up red from ignition at White Sands. Dave had been given a hybrid to drive. He called it a boiled egg for its hydrogen sulfide. If a relationship with one's car is important then Dave had not escaped his previous. In Seattle where he worked before such things got eaten in their lunches, many on stakeout, peeling the shell, reaching for the fiber bar. Which is why Dave left Seattle for Phoenix. The chickens had come home to roost. But before you quarrel with the egg, whether car or the chick came first, or the fiery cosmos visible right up to the center, this figure holds the steering wheel to its chest. Love in human form, egg alive, luminous as St. Hildegard, seeks a maternity of fire, that is, if egg and steering wheel are taken as a girl. We're not talking only spheres, but spirals and breasts extending like a mystic cross down the center, to introduce the extreme vagaries of this place and its perfectly vegan technology, the Arco redecorated to look like a tomato, how that city solved its motor crisis. A green pepper and an onion were at the pumps when Dave pulled in. Help conceal the spinnstubes of our American moor. You can put glasses on a time warp to humor the egg even if the facetious take them off. Three, four realities obtain. The one on the news is the world supposed to be, the real world that once you put on the glasses to see you can't take them off, and a couple more above and below. That is to say nothing about the Beetle juice! Superposition, one day when the gates are open, the next moment will subliminally forget. Then we will all share bank accounts. What other vegetables drive around each day on Beetle Juice? Celery buses and zucchini trucks exit the freeway, max-peanut cars are a way of saying that things are not what they seem when white barred clouds touch the stubble plains with aluminum dew. We are beyond that now. Such realities obtain the world.
The first report on Dame Oops house said that it was so scorched that there must have been a fire. This is inaccurate. Hard crusted limestone covered the blackened chimneys. Maybe it was guano. Zoning was lax in the day. The building had been condemned and boarded up before that. Enterprising citizens had also boarded up the entrances and exits of the canal ditches to prevent burglars, so there was no longer any citizen patrol. Aldrich disclosed the five gallon buckets of motor oil stored under citrus, which shows what kind of reporting goes on in the Parallel. A sort of a diptych, Aldrich had taken to listening to Milton on tape inside his four wheel turnip, seeking moments of inspiration. He was composing a song for a local group called, The Crescents of Asphalt. What fantasies we indulge.
If you meet a fairy tale walking what do you say? If you have any sense at all you won't go south to McDowell tonight to find out, further than one street anyway, but north you may enjoy all pleasures of the holy conscious sort. I don't mean those southy indigenous chewbacca chupacabras out of Grimm. As far as Aldrich was concerned McDowell ran the girdle of the world. He had quotes from Shakespeare tacked up to phone poles and sides of buildings along McDowell as a series of comics. They made up his first dispatch, posted from a desk under the old castle where he stayed on Van Buren. Of this little Mars anomaly, what do you hear from earth, Aldrich? Do horizons persist with caves, giant holes and praying towns? But Dave Cash wasn't sure of his position on the fairy force either, as it came to be called, investigating whether the tale preceded the actual or the actual the tale. Like some flickering bulb that can't decide whether it was on or off. All this is to say that the Dame lived south where, hot shots, Dave would now go. Luminous beams inside the Clavius crater, not to speak of the Plato that Canadians know, with violet edges on the sea, first landings in Mare Crisium, spherical luminosities, psychometric radar, completely bald and all unblinking?
The walls of that Cow though modified, confound. Doors widened, foundations reinforced, next door was a two story horse, if you can believe that, with things inside. It was both a barn and a garage. We have then the cow and we have the horse, but if you take it one step further, and a car can ride a bus then a horse can be a house. Who's been sleeping in my horse house? Indeed they have been asking that. Do metaphors confuse ya? Half of her slept above and half below. The engine ran in her lap, room, room. And by the way, these were not bucket seats anymore than across from where she lived a Train Crossing whistled out of her mouth. You throw up your hands and groan. But it is too soon. We have to bypass thought to think. We -we noncognitive. So it is no stretch that there the Giants whistled night. They are not even the trains you think they are! Back In the barn one wall sagged in the corner of the floor. But there is no wall. If thou be a wall Show me thy chink to blink through with mine eyne! But in the yard a little red computer ran up and It thought it was a caboose. It had a Briefcase, at the crossing blinking, the very one lost outside. These things always begin and end with a briefcase, or with the mention of a briefcase as if its relation to the horse, the house, the cow, the car will be said to be more important than Catalonia. The station master rings up the caboose. The caboose rings the engineer. Now I need tell you there is an OOkio Converging. It was beginning. Word Ops and all such reference were deleted. Kansas see was on the way to FEMA camp. There the goats were going to join the rest of us, so mandates goat gossip. Éclair Sue, if you escape the barn, moo to us as you leave the ground.
Neither Dave Cash or Aldrich S&O were aware that fairy tale had arrived in Phoenix. Mystical toponomy down McDowell, multiple geometric layers, rectangles, squares, cubes. The ley lines are whacked in Phoenix. Calculate the degree of intersection of two and see if you don't get morphology common to moon landings, 19.5 (half of 33) or 21.60, fractal of the moon diameter, years in a zodiacal year, space time configurations between London, Cairo, Jerusalem. Follow Grand Ave to Wickenburg even if only a third of the population can rotate 2D in their brain. The old Dutchman imported Rhine Maidens to Phoenix to make hay with the dudes. Everything south after a grace period of one street provokes the sociologist of character groups. Shoppers of topography in Google maps give electrogravitic proof. This most potent gateway in the northern hemisphere a neutral observer might take with the fume of poppies, but borders on the 33rd recall the experience and are grateful to be spared. There is little to choose in the Cannibal Zone.
For real, neither believed. DewPit City sits right atop the intersection of grid lines N. Latitude 33.30.3, same as Bermuda Triangle. Remotes view it with the chakras of Painted Desert and beliefs of Third Mesa Hopis aligning with the stars in Orion's belt. It takes a while to absorb these scare tactics. This is proven from the Gadsden Purchase and the lights of Arriva
That other competitor for the Case of Missing Beads, Aldrich Sumer, writing for the DP Publica. His Nixies of Brunhild had not come out. Aldrich declared that the reptilian humanoids trapped in Austin and Tucson and other capitols could not escape. DewPit of course was less contained by the elements and escape could be had in any direction. Instead of volcanoes, glaciers and ice foes, it had towering Haboobs and microbursts. Temps over 110 kept the locusts at bay. The caliche was like an ice plain except for the heat. Aldrich worked three part time jobs, but kept the police scanner tuned. He heard dispatch to Dave Cash as he pulled up to Damer's hut.
Presented first with the fiat accompli of layers, the entrants in Cinderella who cannot fathom the next rungs up. This is again metaphor. Never take a metaphor seriously but if you do take it with a grin. The recent past took it as correspondences which are denied the present from its overwhelming sensations. so if we draw it it looks like this:
Ladder first the cow
then the fairy tale that ate the cow
then the real effect in the neighborhoods
than the call mistaken to Detective Cash
then the newspaper accounts
then the embellishments, endless to boot,
then the meaning, the symbol, the interpretation
than the sigh of relief that it's none of it truer than little red riding or bo peep. There used to be a bookroom near the freeway exit at 19th across from old Stanley's polish sausage advertising spiritual lessons, both gone now along with the Dairy Queen.
There are many of these above and below. When the gates are open the next superposition will subliminally forget.
It gets good mileage that Box Car Cow, plenty of room and a methane return.
Back in the beginning its vision prototype suggested myth.
But what they’re stored in muffin tins off Hoboken, or in ocean liners? No matter, we shall pretend that the the Belch of the Fute is not really what it really. Why not? What is it? There's a lot of specialized terminology, like G. Fute’s name was really Mythril. Thy symbol thou shalt consume.
It made one think again and again in that non cognitive way of what the men said when they snucked their heads out of the many boxes piled around the Ob-La-Dee.when they spat: “Why don’t you just say it so we can believe?” But only if you disbelieve can you believe. You see we have this paradox that the tenets of our belief are so strong they are a disbelief. What is it we disbelieve? Absolutely everything that you believe, speaking non cognitively. To give a list of them would be incomplete. To give a list of them would invite you to think. But you can here not think. Hence, Rams with the sounds of gunfire went AaaadaBaa out their horns. Consider it a warning.
Little dogs fired back, AbaDabadab. Blabbers they were, Juveniles, those arms.
Then the monkeys tied to Dame’s Bumper began to jump. And screech. Who wouldn't want to reach the phone to warn, or if they had already done, who would have not already called to say that they weren’t goats or monkeys any more! There were no monketys. No fish. Encore! That and that only is when Susan drove into town. To fetch a pail of water. And Jack was down. And Jill was down.
She’s gone, she’s gone, when thou knowest this thou knowest you goint to get the point one day you missed.
And one moe-thing, the song they sang on the way to camp went like this except in French:
Alle – gor – y, jaunty Allegory
Alle - gory, come to purify.
I will pluck a Guap,
I will pluck a Turk,
Pluck a Turk,
make a Moo
pluck a leg,
have a rib,
me the chuck,
you the roast,
him that wants
take the back,
her the front,
allegor, allegot,
O-o-o-oh!
Chicks of the WebOOk are everywhere strewn. One hopes these clues fulfill. By the way, that Snoutzer in the back of the box cow car was from Globe. You think that's giving it away?
Note: To save speculation about the beliefs here smashed, remember they are disbeliefs—speculated on for weeks when the chestnut cracked under foot.-- Oops! I feel it revealing.
Kansas was Sue Nation come to the True Word School, allegory fit and gone.
OOK three signs of an
http://www.jstor.org/pss/3630201
· Ideology and Identity: Western Shoshoni "Cannibal" Myth as Ethnonational Narrative
· Richard O. Clemmer
· Journal of Anthropological Research, Vol. 52, No. 2 (Summer, 1996), pp. 207-223 (article consists of 17 pages)
· Published by: University of New Mexico
·
Ideology and Identity: Western Shoshoni "Cannibal" Myth as Ethnonational Narrative, by Richard O. Clemmer © 1996 University of New Mexico.
Abstract
Analysis of Western Shoshoni "cannibal" myths is undertaken from the standpoint of historical and cultural contexts. By comparing precontact myths with stories originally reiterated at pine-nut festivals (later called "fandangos"), I show how changes in context also brought changes in content. Whites, rather than mythic figures, became the cannibals. Thus the stories conveyed an unmistakable political message: whites are cannibals and thus are neither trustworthy nor respectful of Indians. The "whites-as-cannibals" stories display much of the same structure and symbolism as the precontact cannibal myths. However, the context of meaning is no longer the same. The festivals and fandangos became contextual events in which a new meaning--a sense of nationhood--was nurtured and reinforced.
1. Folktales
Concepts of the Subfornical
I have done what the anthropologists wanted, taken back the native as my own. It admits too much to live the other way. Whether at bus stop fountains or back fence stories found, plain speaking without fiction is an embarrassment.
So away with all those Eskimo, Caribbean divine myths carried along. Excavate the Caucasoid within! You will find that primitive thought lost in the forests of homeless scutter wanders while fleeing the scutes. Troglodytes of leather whose shells scupper an alternate universe. These folktales performed at banquets to large quantities of meat would endanger the kingdom of grocery.
Concepts of the Subfornical
You cannot mistake the OOk-Ork Planet. Bent to neither side for vertical retraction, OOk-Ork pops straight up like a prairie dog in its burrow, then goes globular. That rotation tongue replaced the old AngleFrank, OOk-Ork’s best weapon, a kind of mandibular debasement of danger, a kind of octopus with nether arms, tentacles furiously spurting ink everywhere. The irony of this antidiuresis and reabsorption of ink back into the terrestrial orifice. Pity that rejection caused these opposites. Talk about open conflict in podernum man!
The cartilaginous attachments of OOk-Ork were more complex than either amphibian from which it formed. Tragedy mounted it at just such a time it was least able to sustain. Reptilian turtle orders, twenty two subsumed to four. A carapace surrounded the subdermal. But whether reptile or bird, OOk-Ork’s thispan ancestor argued a fusion of jaw and mandibular arch by a third.
This mandible stemmed from the construction of lower jaw, a cranium displaced in truth from the brain. Examples are not commonly encountered. Its coarseness expressed in sibilants, the Hox code of OOk-Ork speech affected the upper lip with pharyngular twists. OOk-Ork was a fearsome writer of anomaly impacted skull structures and jaw formations. OOk-Ork originated at dysfunction. Subdivision into ‘oral’ and literal” dissociates at the skull base made it exaggerate. Orthognathous vs. prognathous jaw was characteristic of its early relative, Morganucodon, the Lamprey.
If you open OOK-Ork up you find an everglade drained until only here and there are ponds and mudholes.
Universalem
These challenges bind metaphors of the possible. To have finally communicated to the Universal mind in a language only it could understand, this throwback to the primordial looked forward to the millennial.
Plumber
Magno-cellular super-optic posteriors disputed that subfornical organs were solely Orc. Considering the fluids in question one might call it the body plumber, a function of the ventral brain. But who wants to read about rat slicing or SFO neurons? At the drawing board anti-diruretic enzymes labeled in DNA counterparts depended on the fluid balance. Efferent projections of thirst stimulated drink. If that doesn’t pass the blood brain barrier what does?
The Mandible of Orc Speech
The diversity of skull structures or jaw formation divides one humanity from two.
Orc speech originates at this dysfunction.
Its arrested development exemplifies the tension between mandibles, between claims that the orthognathous vs. the prognathous jaw of mammal-like reptiles is characteristic of another early relative, Morganucodon, the Lamprey.
With this enlargement of the jaw the Orc’s best weapon is mandibular debasement, a bone whose affliction is known also as its own greatest danger.
Talk about conflict in early man!
The irony is that the human had the larger orifice.
It is a pity that no mutual rejection resolved these reptiles.
The English Orc mandible also stems from the globular cranium of its speech.
This originates at the lower jaw, where truth is a little Orkish.
Students and professors alike have posterior hearts on the dying culture, what Tollmer once labeled as a metaphorical demise, but which we call the peptide mind.
Orkish, whether the living or dying tongue, replaced Angle-Ork, Franc-Ork and Germ-Ork.
It went global.
Examples are commonly encountered in the culture where coarseness not merely articulated in language cannot be separated from sibilants
Three Versions of the Guapa Myth
Planetary Susan
The Dame of Guapa Pop
Her name was Myth.
Her pop was Guapo Myth.
In his life as Tank Musselman he ran an all night party sloop along the flooded
Scottsdale
border.
She looked like him, but she had hair.
Sidewalks cracked when they stood together.
Depressions left by their feet in the park drowned little dogs.
Nobody connected Pop’s disappearance with Dame Belcher’s purchase of a walk-in
freeze. Presumption credits that Dame, Tank’s second spouse, had too much brew
the night his Myth got shanked and smoked. That was three full years before Susan entered the same.
Sue Myth had had the front seat of her car removed so she could drive
from the back. Not that she was tall. She was wide. Blocks on the pedals
enabled her to pump them up and down. Into this world, home from the
bowling leagues, came Sue. She rented balls and shoes. Crowds gathered.
Men pinched women and shook hands. Traffic beeped for blocks.
For all they were nice folks. Goats populated piles of debris.
For all they were quiet folks, never a loud noise unless you count the chickens
or the occasional gaseous emissions.
The belches anyway were pleasant, if you thought you lived where Susan lived,
along the coast of Hoboken
where ferries and tugboats echoed by night.
What are you waiting for me to tell you, that the Step Dame ate the Musselmans?
That's no joke, but odious as all decay that stops a hole to keep the wind
away. Women doing what men have all along, quartering purple mountains,
packaging fruited plains?
There’s the excuse for eating Susan. The profit of developers. Who pays
the taxes, gets permits where neighborhoods are zoned for cannibalism?
Smoke poured from the gingerbread chimney.
She ate Pop.
She ate Sue.
What are you waiting for me to say?
It's a case of provocation and murder.
Him and her, that’s all there is.
One day she was there. The next day she’s gone.
“She’s
gone, she’s gone, when thou knowest this
thou
knowest the fragmentary rubbidge this world is."
2.
Sue Myth went her way o’er hill and dale, in wagon and under arm to the
Frigidaire’s and stewpots of the Danger
Mountains.
The dark moon of January,
cool breezes of light,
porch slivers were quiet,
Susan had not been seen in weeks.
Chickens were silent as canal ditches.
The homeless drifted home.
Dame Fortune wrote on the canvas of unmaking.
That freezer humped a blues.
Sixty Watt tramped out the back of Dame
Belcher’s hutch. That sissy bulb was smashed. Hedgerows ran unbelieving. They
came in through the bathroom window.
Shout, cuidado!
You’d think the glass would tinkle a warning, but it was new safety glass, no
louder in breaking than those fir trees that put their feet under plywood
sheets last summer.
How many came is anybody’s guess.
A syndicate is implied for the body to spread so far.
Wagons and bicycles if not trucks and trains backed up.
And what did the bandits do when they came to that massive barred door, the
freezer room running off the entry?
Look out! Look out!
Go fast, room to room, poke closets and slide
open the cold door?
Sides of beef, chickens hung from hooks?
Or was it packed in white, labeled by compartment like Glendale housewife's roast under veil,
loin in the defroster, veal?
You only see it dimly.
Freezer light’s not bright.
You best see it quickly.
No place linger winter nights.
Quick hands roust the white packs.
Up on boxes, down the hooks!
Fat sausages or arms?
What hams?
Dread Gorgon!
Susan of the smoke and a cloudy day!
Susan who stood on the walk and could have been a host of hundreds who never
dreamed their expectations this-a-way.
Guapa Susan.
Relays boost to pickups.
Wholesale all the day.
Others rush to grandma’s house.
Slam the fridge.
Bang Susan in ice chest.
Sneak her in Mom’s Westinghouse,
wrapped as a decorator might.
White paper covered the deed of the Dame, who called police for the missing that
night, freezer empty, her bead collection on the floor.
3.
Patrolmen filled out the case card, took figures for insurance.
Next day, Dictective Dave Cash came, peace broken out, there was nothing else
to do. The result of last night’s initiative? Step Dame let him in.
No warrant was needed to investigate a crime.
Living room led to dining, dining room to kitchen, en passant to freezer, solid
eight by ten.
The officer hesitated at the entry.
“They took all your meat?”
“Yes, they did! My daughter’s missing and I can’t find my plates!”
“Have you filed a missing person report?”
“No sir, she’s gone! After all the trouble I took in getting her right!
What can I do now?”
“Well, Ma’am, you can file a missing person report and if she doesn’t turn up
in thirty days we can give her to the FBI.”
“No, no! She’s not missing like that! She’s gone!”
The officer advised Step Dame of her rights. Alarm then spread our city.
An APB for meat.
Freezers were sought by mothers seeking Susan.
The purveyors thought it a joke.
Weathermen puzzled on the news:
“What goes east and west
and north and south
but never stays the same?”
Children riddled at bus stops:
“One, two, three, four
Who’s behind the white door?”
It was the eighth wonder of the world in a town that had a spa.
Guapa Susan
The neighborhoods south of McDowell are eating Susan
tonight.
This is no joke.
Would you like a nice moo cow coming in your yard? With all the
trimmings? Susan was as big as a cow and that likened her.
It was logical.
She worked nights and came home in the day. Her car vented smoke like
a blue volcano. She put the pedal down and erupted from a distance.
At dawn you looked out your window for the fire. Chickens stirred
their stripes. Voices ran like sirens. Crowds gathered on walks. Widows did
business in directions. But the fire engines never came.
Susan drove in the midst. Arms waved. Voices greeted her glowing.
Dust settled. It was Tuesday. That's what routine will do. The neighbors were
watching her. You'd have done different?
The fence rows of that house surrounded Susan. She could still live
in a building like you or me. Some modifications had been made, doors widened,
foundations reinforced. Her chair was a two-story bed. One wall sagged in the
corner of the floor. The little red phone was dinging. The phone was dinging.
The goats were gossiping. You ate Susan and think this an exaggeration?
Science has long proven that the homogenous ecoplasm called earth
affects everything else.
So?
Allegory, dude.
Susan lived where no white person should have dared, shortened down
to the nubbin, parceled out by the bone! They saw her largess and loved her,
mountain and plain. Word went home.
Come to Susan's!
Kindreds gathered. She pulled to the curb in her red car smoking to
appreciative murmurs.
Peepo storked and Lydia
cried.
Men in potato sacks around 7-11's tramped out of their boxes for the
view.
Three More Signs of an OOk
Eyewitness Accounts
The story came out but no participants were detected.
The story came out but none of the contenders were caught.
That left the goats who talked.
Three goats tied to the Damer’s Buick blabbed.
The biggest was a red ram who went abba daba dabaad on the bumper.
Damer also kept little dogs, but they only went abba, abba, a Pomeranian, a Snoutzer and Pifawa paper back original.
I read them on the berm in the yard.
These dogs were known to wag with love that metaversal flesh consumes until you pop; then the goats would pee-opulate piles of debris.
It is one of the great sentence mysteries of the west.
We do not propose you ride it.
Just be warned.
Three Myths
Here’s how it went.
There were three myths who lived in a house in Dew Pit, a town with a spa and a delightsome mayor.
Guapo Pop was the biggest, then came Step Dame, and then came Baby Lit.
You can call her Peggy Sue.
Each myth had a bowl of porridge that emitted strange gases.
They were quiet folk if you didn’t count the chickens or these gaseous emissions.
Their belches made you think of the first sign of the book,
that is, the ginger snap of tawdry fact.
It's messy and it is sticky, so we need to interpret.
Or not, you can take an application out.
To further our voyage to this land of cannibalists we have set parts of it to music.
Guapa Pop
Here’s how it goes.
The Dame was Guapa Pop.
Her daughter was Sue Lit.
Her husband weighed 800 pounds.
That was the second sign of the myth.
But the reader has Dame appetite. She's like a blog. Absorptive, consuming, hungry for love.
Turk the husband, who we can call the intermediary, but to follow the motif, he was wait staff to the meal.
Susan of course was our whole delight.
which trod the wire of half belief.
We are also writing a book on pastry.
Big Und
Turk had retired from the Big Und. Which is Un-dustry spelled with a U.
I don’t know if that’s a sign. We can say Ublishing.
There’s no delicate way to say that Turk made books.
This proverbial dismemberment was the verbiage on Dame’s plate.
It poisoned her brain, the fab of the year, an inchoate Melville acclaimed, which was a defense when she ate Crane.
She ate ‘em all.
Now you done it and you heard the news.
An 800 pound man with a 600 pound daughter, who lived with that man’s second wife, was slaughtered and the remains.
Peggy Sue
Susan worked nights and came home in the day. She rented balls and shoes.
It was a form of bowling when her car vented blue. Houses were ten pins.
Coming down the alley they swore it was a tornado but it was Sue.
Lei lines dove tug-faced in her head. She drove with a bowling spare.
People on the verge of reading gathered each day to hear the news.
So what do you eat when you eat Sue Lit, broadside big as a ham, clerihews, anthologized stew?
This is the cure my friend.
Sure, drink milk in your poem.
Roast poem in your home.
But Sue Lit is a beauty cure.
What doesn’t Sue Lit cure?
She is that huge alone.
If we could just get a piece of the bone then the world would be one.
Where has she gone?
How was it done?
That’s what we’re here to show.
Once upon a time in a town with a gingerbread spa and a lightsome mayor named Arly the smoke poured from our Damer’s dread chimney.
That was the third sign of the book.
Did you know where the Turk had gone? Back to Und?
Where did he go?
He went up the chimney.
How you feeling?
Results
Turk, that retired agent of Ublishing was a party poop, but he hadn’t lost his stuff, he squealed and squelched when he took off.
But when Turk went up it was a loss to Und and all little dogs who search for meaning as much as did to the Ooks.
If you think there’s more to this you’re right.
(Sign! Sign!)
On the other hand, when Guapa Pop got fat (she is after all, The Dame!), that and the warning of those little goats was hard to take.
Eating Pop is messy.
Things wind up on the floor.
Little dogs eat the digestibles.
Best pup poet gossip, hear, hear.
Then comes clean up.
Once when all the small animals had disappeared, Und made up a song, and we sang this song a guapa-ing, when home from the leagues came Sue.
Crowds gathered and traffic beeped for blocks.
It is no joke when Hotel Damer eats the Ooks.
And these are just the ordinary signs.
Women doing what men were doing all along, littering the purple plain.
That’s an excuse for eating Susan. Ooks!
Just pay the rent.
She ate him.
She ate her.
That’s it.
He was big.
Now he gone.
You want Aesop?
“When she’s gone, she's gone,
the moon and the sun,
the stars in the sky,
they know the reason
why she’s gone,
yes, when she’s gone.
Now she’s gone.”
Jack’s pickup: Remember Susan of the day sneaked in the Westinghouse. Sneaked in Mom’s Westinghouse Susan stood the walk “they took your meat?” Guapa packed in white. Yes sir my Susan’s gone. Open door of roaster, defroster freshened veal. Packed in white remember our city so alarmed. Packed in sacks of guapa lit I guess they syndicate, relay backs to pickup, fence wholesale all the day. Yes sir my Susan’s gone.
Relay sack to pickup, jet. Fence wholesale all the day. To grandma’s house we fridge! Bang! Susan in ice chest. Susan of a cloudy day! Sneaked in a Westinghouse.
Susan stood, a dream.
Guapa packed remember. Open door, defroster, veal. See dim. See quick. Fat sausage arm? Ham? Gorgon!
En passant.
The Mystery of Guapa Lit
In the deep freeze Guapa Lit made Damer call police. She let him in. The freezer was eight by ten. “They took your meat?” “My Susan’s gone.” Alarmed SueLit was being farmed, parceled out in sacks, many came I guess to syndicate that body far. Wagons backed alley trains to cold door! Freezer bright. No linger night. Up sausage. Down the hooks!
Purveyors joked widely on news shows in this town that never had a riddle, much less an en passant.
See chicken claws on hooks?
What purveyors thought a joke, laughed widely on news shows, in this town we never had a riddle, but we had a spa. We hesitate at dining en passant and I’d be for going out to file a missing person card.
Moms sought Susan with APBs
Room, room.
Quick hands roust packs. Poke closet, freezer entry
Sue lit packed in white
The Mystery of Guapa Lit
It was a white paper deed, Susan missing from the freeze. Damer called police and let him in. The freezer was eight by ten.. “They took your meat?” he said. “Yes sir, my Susan’s gone.” It was a dream.
Our city was alarmed that Susan was being farmed. Moms sought Susan with APBs. The purveyors thought it a joke, laughed widely on news shows in this town that never had a riddle, but it had a spa. We hesitate at dining en passant and I’d be for going out to file a missing person card.
Child at bus stops fiddled:“Who’s behind the white door?”While patrolmen filled out a card.
You wonder why peace broke out
?
“Have you filed a missing person Ma’am? If you file a missing person we can give her to the FBI.” That Officer advised her of her rights.
2.
OOK
OOPS
Contents
Guapa Susan
The Dame of Guapa Pop
Three Signs of the Big OOk
Pop Head BOOk
Sue SmOOke
True Word WebOOk
Remnants of Yaunty Leg
The Remains of Lit and Und on Shunt
Bear Pig Wold Told
OOk Apps
Dininneration
Imprints of Und
Footprints of Pegasus
A Fairy Tale
Guapa Susan
The
neighborhoods south of McDowell are eating Susan tonight.
This is no joke.
Would you like a nice moo cow coming in your yard? With all the
trimmings? Susan was as big as a cow and that likened her.
It was logical.
She worked nights and came home in the day. Her car vented smoke like
a blue volcano. She put the pedal down and erupted from a distance.
At dawn you looked out your window for the fire. Chickens stirred
their stripes. Voices ran like sirens. Crowds gathered on walks. Widows did
business in directions. But the fire engines never came.
Susan drove in the midst. Arms waved. Voices greeted her glowing.
Dust settled. It was Tuesday. That's what routine will do. The neighbors were
watching her. You'd have done different?
The fence rows of that house surrounded Susan. She could still live
in a building like you or me. Some modifications had been made, doors widened,
foundations reinforced. Her chair was a two-story bed. One wall sagged in the
corner of the floor. The little red phone was dinging. The phone was dinging.
The goats were gossiping. You ate Susan and think this an exaggeration?
Science has long proven that the homogenous ecoplasm called earth
affects everything else.
So?
Allegory, dude.
Susan lived where no white person should have dared, shortened down
to the nubbin, parceled out by the bone! They saw her largess and loved her,
mountain and plain. Word went home.
Come to Susan's!
Kindreds gathered. She pulled to the curb in her red car smoking to
appreciative murmurs.
Peepo storked and Lydia
cried.
Men in potato sacks around 7-11's tramped out of their boxes for the
view.
The Dame of Guapa Pop
Her name was Myth.
Her pop was Guapo Myth.
In his life as Turk Musselman he was an all night party poop along the Scottsdale border.
Susan looked like him, but she had hair.
Sidewalks cracked when they stood together.
Depressions left by their feet in the park drowned little dogs.
Nobody connected Pop’s disappearance with Dame Belcher’s purchase of a walk-in
freeze. Presumption credits that the Dame, Turk’s second spouse, had too much
brew the night that Myth got shanked and smoked. That was three full years
before Susan entered the same.
For all they were nice folks. Goats populated piles of debris.
For all they were quiet folks, never a loud noise unless you count the chickens
or the occasional gaseous emission.
The belches anyway were pleasant, made you think you lived on the coast off Hoboken where ferries and
tugboats echoed by night.
In this world, home from the bowling leagues, came Sue. She rented balls and
shoes. Crowds gathered. Men pinched women and shook hands. Traffic beeped for
blocks.
Sue Myth had had the front seat of her car removed so she could drive from the
back. Not that she was tall. She was wide. Blocks on the pedals enabled her to
pump them up and down.
What are you waiting for me to tell, that Step Dame ate the Musselmans?
This is no joke, but odious as all decay that stops a hole to keep the wind
away. Women doing what men have all along, a sign of the time, quartering
purple mountains, packaging fruited plains?
There’s an excuse for eating Susan? The profit of developers? Who pays the
taxes, gets permits? Neighborhoods are zoned for cannibalism?
Smoke poured from the gingerbread chimney.
She ate Pop.
She ate Sue.
What are you waiting for me to say?
Him and her? That’s all there is.
It’s a case of provocation and murder.
One day she was there. The next day she’s gone.
“She’s
gone, she’s gone, when thou knowest this
thou
knowest the swell carcass Sue Myth is.”
2.
Sue Myth went her way o’er hill and dale, in wagon and under arm to the
Frigidaires and stewpots of the Danger
Mountains.
The dark moon of January,
cool breezes of light,
porch slivers were quiet,
Susan had not been seen in weeks.
Chickens were silent as canal ditches.
The homeless drifted home.
Dame Fortune wrote on the canvas of unmaking.
Freezer humped a blues.
Sixty Watt tramped out the back of Belcher’s hutch. That sissy bulb was
smashed. Hedgerows ran unbelieving. They came in through the bathroom window.
Shout, cuidado!
You’d think the glass would tinkle a warning, but it was new safety glass, no
louder in breaking than fir trees that put their feet in plywood sheets last summer.
How many came is anybody’s guess.
A syndicate is implied for the body to spread so far.
Wagons and bicycles if not trucks and trains backed up.
What did the bandits do when they came to that massive barred door, the freezer
room running off the entry?
Look out! Look out!
Go fast, room to room, poke closets and open the cold door?
Sides of beef, chickens hung from hooks?
Or was it packed in white, labeled by compartment like Glendale housewife, roast under veil, loin in
the defroster, and veal?
You only see it dimly.
Freezer light’s not bright.
You best see it quickly.
No place linger winter nights.
Quick hands roust the white packs.
Up on boxes, down the hooks!
Fat sausages or arms?
What hams?
Dread Gorgon!
Susan of the smoke and a cloudy day! Susan who stood the walk and could have
been a ghost of hundreds who never dreamed their expectations this-a-way. Guapa
Susan.
Relays boost to pickups.
Wholesale all the day.
Others rush to grandma’s house.
Slam girlfriend’s fridge.
Bang Susan in ice chest.
Sneak her in Mom’s Westinghouse,
wrapped as a decorator might.
White paper covered the deed of the Dame, who called police for the missing,
freezer empty, her bead collection on the floor that night.
3.
Patrolmen filled out the case card, took figures for insurance.
Next day, Dectective Dave Cash came, with nothing left to do, peace broken out.
That night’s initiative? Step Dame let him in.
No warrant was needed to investigate a crime.
Living room led to dining, dining room to kitchen, en passant to freezer, solid
eight by ten.
Officer hesitated entry.
“They took all your meat?”
“Yes, they did! My daughter’s missing and I can’t find my plates!”
“Have you filed a missing person report?”
“No sir, she’s gone! After all the trouble I took in getting her right! What
can I do now?”
“Well, Ma’am, you can file a missing person report and if she doesn’t turn up
in thirty days we can give her to the FBI.”
“No, no! She’s not missing like that! She’s gone!”
The officer advised Step Dame of her rights. Alarm spread our city. An APB for
meat.
Freezers were sought by mothers seeking Susan.
The purveyors thought it a joke.
Weathermen puzzled the news:
“What goes east and west
and north and south
but never stays the same?”
Children riddled at bus stops:
“One, two, three, four
Who’s behind the white door?”
It was the eighth wonder of the world in a town that had a spa.
This is a true story. Dame and Susan came over and sat on the berm. They had a
basement in their adobe. Guapo, Guapa, Damer, Turk, SueLit are mythogemas of
publishing. Phobias turn out to be large mythogemes, lakes like oceans, eggs
like eggs, derangement fueled by atomic sprees of eating.
Three Signs of the Ook
1.
Once upon a time there were three big
OOks that lived in a house in Cow Piedy. Turk OOk was the father, Mama OOk was
the mama, and Baby SueLit OOk looked like her dad. Each OOk ate a bowl of
sausage for breakfast with ginger snaps stuck in the side. If you didn’t
count the chickens or the occasional gaseous emissions they were quiet OOks,
excluding the belch, a first sign.
Mama belched to Turk about his 800 pounds. When he and Sue walked in the Park
their footprints filled with water and drowned little dogs in the Park to go
PupPote. Mama defended PupPote, the proverbial dismemberment that Pups cause.
It was necessary for Mama’s pate, this eeing. Pups eat off the Dame’s floor,
which is nothing to her since she eats both OOks and Pups are served up as
Remains. There are no special meanings to Remains, PupPote, Park, OOk, etc, but
it’s a lot to feed an OOk to an OOk. She was the OOk of fame. Turk was feeding
Sue to Dame! It boggles the mind that Turk the publisher fed and then was
ate!
2.
The second sign of the OOk is the
passionate desire. Ma OOk, Dame Belcher or Guapa Pop, she has a lot of names,
ate SueLit and her dad. He had retired from publishing to write a fairy tale,
an 800 pound OOk with a 600 pound OOklet. While Turk had married the Guapa Mama
for OOk amour, she was his second OOk.
Were you Turk you longed to OOk. Were you Dame you longed to OOk, although the
sense is different, a little pasty. Little dog PupPotes long to be best sellers
in OOk. In this rubble it wasn’t just breakfast they cooked, but lunch pasties,
Ham on Rye, and dinner with TV and
appliance. Dinner was modem in the left, forkem in the right.
So whatdaya call when you eat the OOk, broadside big as ham, clerihews,
anthologized stew? It’s all a cure for what ails. Indigestion? Drink milk in
your poem. Sleep deprived? Hunger? Roast PupPotem in your poem. SueLit is a beauty
cure. What doesn’t Sue Ook cure? She’s that grape of the huge alone. If you had
the bone then the world would be one! One peace, one world, one home! Susan!
But where has she gone? That’s what we’re here to show.
The secret came out when one of the goats tied to Dame OOk’s bumper blabbed.
Billy, with his Nanny and their kid, went abba
daba dab on the bumper. Dame kept PupPotes too in the back seat, little
Schnauzers, a Pomeranian, and a Pifawa paperback. Never in the metaverse has
this been resolved.
3.
To sum up, Mama OOk in a gingerbread
house with smoke coming out the top fattened up Turk for the kill. That smoke
is the third sign of OOk. When Turk went up it was as big a loss to the little
dogs as to the OOks, Turk being the source of their food. Why would Dame fatten
and kill what made her live? On the other hand when Ma OOk hungered she ate
some PupPote.
In their warning about OOks in OOkem,
the goats had said that these things were indigestible. Everyone knows the mess
now, the gravy, the meat balls on the wall. The beauty of OOkistry is that
these tales about Turk and Sue OOk will bring them back.
POP Head BOOk
First Sign
In honor of talk not
necessarily that we have heard, the first sign was that none of participants
were arrested. Those at the bus stop declare the gossip went like this:
Once on a time there were three good myths that lived in a house in DewDip.
Guapo Pop was the fadder biggest. Step Dame mama was amorpheous. Sue Lit baby
showed like her dad. The child version with further discrimination follows.
Each myth ate porridge with ginger snaps at dawn. They were quick folk in the
nook, even if they lived off HoBook. Do not count the chickens or the
occasional gaseous submissions. The belches, included among the first signs of
the book, were as buoys and tug boats that echo by night. Here ends the first
day of myth.
Second Sign
The second sign came when none
were caught. The titular head of the family Pop, Step Dame, also called Damer,
had a lot of names: Dame Belcher, Mother English, Guapa Pop. Her step daughter was Sue Lit. Where the real
mom? Nobody knew and if they did you think they'd tell? We have suspicions. So
much has been written of the replacement Dame, but you do know what a
stepmother is. She is the quintessent pop, from fairy tale to Fess, which is
what Damer belched to the universal psych. Things not simp, grasshop. Damer
belching Susan and Musselman Pop. If you're not Pop, you're not.
The husband weighed 800 pounds and shared this resemblance with Sue. You
unnerstand semblance? Intuit the walk in the park, footprints drowned little
dogs. What park! What dogs? The park Laguna Langua. That's why they call them Lake Poets,
the little dogs. Nowadays that don't mean much.
Damer belching is the second sign. Reader appetite, Dame Voracious, reading day
and night. Read means eat. Dame appetite. A nut you most desire. Appetite cracksers.
In common, consume, consume. Damer, therefore reader, ate Toot Suite. QED. And
dad, publisher of World Books, retired to the aulde syne.
Third Sign
That left the third sign, the
goats who talked Billy, two nannies and their kids, Kinder, Kendall and Don.
They were yule goats tied to Damer's Buick. The biggest blab was that ram who
went abab blab adab on the bumper. Damer had little dogs too who spoke
quatrains mostly. They went abba, a Pomeranian, a Snouzer and a Pifawa paper.
The wag of love! We read them on the berm. Metaversal flesh consumed. You pop!
Itself the mystery west. We do propose it. Come over. This account registered
with the Goat Soc.
Redacting Myth
Looked at another way, Turk was
serving Sue to Pop, but Pop was Guap. Sue delight was every one's. Were you a
dog you longed. Were you Turk you served. Were you Dame you ate. Repeat: eat =
read. Do not trod a half belief.
This book is about pastry.
That same knowledge came at the end of Rome.
Turk M, Party Poop, Big Und
Turkey retired from Big Undustry U.
Don't know if this is a sign. We say Ublishing. Or Unblishing, to the point.
Not delicate to describe the dismemberment of verbs on Dame's plate. Who to
blame? Preverbs poisoned the brain. The flab of the year acclaimed Melville
eating Crane. She ate 'em all. Now you done it, you heard. Turk made books like
he lived off Claribel: 800 pound man, 600 pound daughter, lived with second
wife,
stored remains.
Sue Lit
Susan
worked nights and came home in the day. She rented balls and shoes. Lit biz not
all glam. Then came rubble, empties on the roof, and take out, them weird
eruptions in the tale. They sat. Not just breakfast. Lunch was normal. Ham on Rye, that read by schools:
milk shakes till the Dairy dry.
pickle nasty as before.
no steamed lettuce or pork.
Dinner? You want it all. Defer that appetite, dinner soup de grace. Turn on TV,
rap, appliance going, modem in left, fork in the right. Chang those ditties,
advert six, couple delectables, send pix! She wa de rose by-chemical wood, he
da Chanticleeric roost.
Probably you know her transportation venting blue.
Critics swear it tornado, but it Sue.
Lei lines drove tug-faced on her head. People on the verge of reading hear the
new expect.
So what do you eat when you eat Sue Lit, cuandero squash or ham, a broadside
big, clerihews, anthologized stew?
It a cure my friend.
A cure for ail ya.
Drink milk in a poem.
Also a sleep aid. Roast poem in your home.
Round the burners frosty Sue Lit's a beauty cure. Civilization Sue! Sue Lit!
They call. What doesn't Sue Lit cure? She's that huge alone. If we get to the
bone then the world will be one! One peace, one home. Where gone? That was what
they asked when they couldn't dream. The cupboards and ices and niceness. And
finally, how done? That's what we're here to show.
Once upon a time in a town with a spa and a delightsome mayor smoke came from
Damer's third chimney. The third sign of the book. Not the chimney! The
smoke!
Where oh where has the Turkey
gone?
She fattened him up on the run.
Did you know Turk had gone?
Why would she fatten and kill what made her live, but on the other if she
didn't she would starve. If this were a drama or a movie we'd wheel in a
platter, each with a head. Things cloy but don't stop.
Go veg!
Where he go?
Back to basic Turk.
Can fly, know the wild.
Turk flew up the tree to roost. He went up the chimney he did. Ain't you read?
What that tell?
Pass go.
Results
Predictable Turk of Und, the
party poop hadn't lost his stuff. He squealed and squelched when he took off.
But when Turk went up it was a loss to Und and little dogs as much as Ooks.
Ooks? Ooks? Sign! Sign! If you think there's more you're right. What's
an Ook? Not tell. On the plus side this Damer, that is Guapa Pop, got fat.
Fat maybe not the word.
Can't have that, consume, consume, you pop.
Otherwise the economy gone up and all of us.
So eat Sue Lit.
Combine Sue Lit with egg.
Eat Pop mess. That warning hard. Things wind up on the floor, little dogs eat
digestibles. Everybody says it, but watch the hand near eye. It pointing down.
That means a lie. The point is late in coming in the mess, gravy meat ball
wall, babies screaming, give us more. Then comes clean up. Best pup poet
gossip.
Und made a song of all the smalls that disappeared.
Turk lived on it afterward.
These songs were Ublished in a ook wit rhyme, and into this world a guapa-ing
from bowling leagues came Sue. Traffic beeped blocks.
No joke!
Hotel Damer ate the Ooks.
These signs. Women do what men have all along. Eat the purple home.
That's excuse for eating OOks?
Susan?
Double OO!
What that remind?
Who pays the taxes, gets permits?
Boil down the nubbin, mix a batch,
let it rise in the kitch all night.
Separate commerce, lurch from the pad, things are the same. Nay madam, seems!
Cook's prerogative. Who buys? Here comes that pence athwart the eyes. What
happened to the lid? Why does the air steam?
No way to cross?
All questions worth your time.
Neighborhoods are zoned for cannibalism?
Why not just deny this is going on and pay the rent?
She ate him. She ate her. That's it.
He was big. Now he gone. You want Aesop to sing a song, how 'bout 'op?
What you got?
Do get a gun. Time for coup, folks.
Beethoven Rundown, bang door, stalk room, pound, "now it's done."
When she gone,
the moon and the sun,
the star in the sky,
know the reason
why she gone,
yeah, she gone.
now she gone.
And when thou hear thou know the fair carcass Sue Lit is.
II.
[The first sign came but none of participants were arrested.
None arrested doesn't mean none suspected. Suspicion is an honor among the
folk, which means that we have to hear it. Those at the top gossip that it went
like this: ]
For our second sign, which none of them suspected, we examine the titular head of
Pop, that being the Madam Damer. Her step daughter is Sue Lit. Nobody knows
what happened to the real one. So much has been written about Madam Damer
herself that the question is immaterial. When Dame Voracious read by day, which
means scroll, surf, by night she had a different appetite. Call it sensation,
or if you like, a desire to consume. There is some contradiction between lit
and pop.
They had lived in Galveston, Lake Havasu
and HoBooken. We compare reading to eating in this missal.
We even eat when we read.
Digesting psyche defined zwitgeist.
Milk shakes, at least till Dairy dry.
Pickle nasty.
But no steamed lettuce or pork, that was dinner it seems.
Dinner Not Row Your Boat, but Lines roved Lei-faced in her head.
It was not pretty.
Chanticleric melodies to the rooster crowed in bed.
When her car, it vented blue,
critics swore tornado,
it was Sue.
Pop Heads
Big nose, fat rump,
zits, a little frump? Sue Lit leads to escape. Civilization founded Lit! Sue
Lit! Suit Lit, they call. It was always a question they asked about the
cupboards, the niceness and the tea. And finally, how was it done? That's what
we show. But on the other hand if she didn't, she would starve. That is counter
intuitive. Things are simple and not. If this were a drama or a movie we'd wheel
in a platter with writers, each one carrying a POP. That don't stop us from a
meal. Where did he go? Turkeys
can fly in the wild. Turk flew up a tree to roost. He went up the chimney all
right. What does that tell? Pass go, get fat. Fat is maybe not a sufficient
word. Consuming consumption until you pop, otherwise the economy does not go up
and with it all of us.
This account registered at the Great Soc.
AE Reiff writes: The text here is overwriting interlineated, three texts translated by the fictional writer El Ephod with glosses and illustrations. POP Head BOOk includes Guapa Susan, The Remains of Lit and Und on Shunt, Invisible Giants, The Dame of Guapa Pop, Three Big Ooks, all indexed to be beviewed here.
Sue SmOOke
I was searching microfiche and knew at first her name was Guap. In that day when she came home her car smoked. This word was smudged in the script. It vas vulkan! probably volcano, written in Dutch. Her other name was Myth. She worked nights in Die Bowling-Strass renting shoes. There was so much smoke when she put the pedal down crowds gathered as if for fire. No fire really, no sirens, just riots and smoke from her car.
Dat vas vat drew da crowd on walks. Widows did big directions, great finger pointing groups, but in the midst a soup can picture, arms waved, mobs and crowd-secret gloaming. Don’t say Gawk. You’d done different? Prurience is like this.
So when dudes called up fate for the giantess sprout, Sue Lit in her guise was at school: the death of Lit, a desire to consume obese. This refers to Dame Belch, Flab Flut, the one who married G. Turk, Susan’s father, Mr. SolongTurk, who had eight hundred party sloops on Danger sea, symbol of all who consumed.
Kindreds gatted when she pulled up in the smoke. Down nubbin, parceled bone! Largess ruled nation. Word went home. More came, artery lite, appetite gone wry.
2.
He
was hairless. Susan looked like him, but she had hair man.
Depressions left by their feet where they stood together in the park… hardly
are those words out when drowned little dogs.
It says that here in the 8×10. It was Presumption! The Dame! Credo brewed the
night that Turk got shanked and smoked. Sue entered mise en scène.
Clouds of smoke roared from Damer’s chimney.
What did you expect, car licenses for oleanders?
Belches among pleasant elves?
In that world, home from the bowling leagues, came Sue.
She rented balls and schuhe.
As always crowds gathered. Men pinched women and shook gas.
Susan
had the seat of her car removed so she could drive from the back.
She was tall. She was wide.
Do
you get that Step Dame ate the eco-redux!
The sign of our time, do-piping fruit.
Who wouldn’t want a moo cow trimming? Éclair Susan great as a cow. We liken her to vision, earmarks of mother myth.
The neighbors were watching Susan. She could live in a building like you and me. Her hall was a bowling lane. One chair reversed to a two-story bed. There were verses on the wall that sagged in the corner where the red phone was ringing. Those who ate the subsequent thought goats were texting.
Susan
stands for fate.
Great giantess disports as we speak. Hope it clears the telling. She was
the meat, loved by all. But here came Belcher, consumed SueLit. Obesity
overcame.
Dark
moon cool light, porch open.
Homeless drifted one by two.
Damer swept unmaking.
Freezer humped the blues.
Sixty Watt tramped out Damer’s hutch smashed.
Et too, that sissy bulb smashed.
Hedgerows ran round like eggs,
little lines of joke run wild.
Wordsworth stuck on the wall Supported Wood.
Pflege! Fliege!
You’d think the glass would tinkle
louder than an attorney breaking,
louder than trees in plywood shorts.
How
many came? We’re taking census. A syndicate implies the body gone.
Wagons and tricycles biked up to windows, trains for Meet the Press at dawn.
What did those bandits at the massy door nosed room, Maginot! Freezer Fffliedersehen!
but it was bicycles (agents never stop swarming), round the cold
nook, fists in closets opened the bed. The beef? Plop! Cold door! Plop! Fast
chickens hung on hooks, Quack-cluck! packed, blame housewife who
can’t remember roast under veil, loin on claw or in the self, fat veal. Yeah!
By compartment! Room, room.
She
come from the footprints of Pegasus, pierced polar night where the cap poked
down.
Hip mama take you winking!
Sue smoke a cloudy dawn!
Sue smoke a cloudy dawn!
She would come from the footprints of Pegasus, pierced polar night where the cap pokes down.
Hip mama take you winking!
Sue smoke a cloudy dawn!
She smoke a cloudy dawn.
***
A cloudy toy.
It was done in relays.
Boosty sack-ups jet.
Someone made wholesale that day.
Someone stuck grandma’s house fridge!
Rushed a girl, banged a chest, snuck a fridge.
Her home Mom’s Westinghouse, wrapped, done up what hundreds never dreamed
Sitteth there, the paper dubbed the news.
Who called police, report indeed Sue miss?
The newspaper called the news.
The Dame-reader, proligigator-tinker, freezer empty feared her bread on the floor.
***
A petrolman filled out the card, took insurance, figured forms. His name was Norm. Next day, Dave Cash, detected. Peace broke out don’t you know. result of that night’s collect.
Step Dame let him. No warrant instigated crime.
Living room led to dining, dining freeze to kitch, kitch to solid eight by ten. How much is that kitchen in the window? En passant. Kn to Q1! Bang, he pondered entry at dawn.
“So they took your meat.”
“Yes, they did! My daughter’s missing and I don’t know why.
Crime, crime, crime, crime, crime, Allegory crime.
Crime, crime, crime, crime is the man on the phone. Mars, to earth.
Crime is the next best the missing purse! Crime the time!”
“Have you filed a missing purse report?”
“No sir, She’s gone! After all the trouble I took to get her right! What can I now?”
“Can‘em and dry’em, and smoke’m up too, put in a vacuum. Lit is for you!”
I discovers it.
“Well, Ma’am, like I said, you file a missing purse report and if it doesn’t turn up in thirty days we can give it to the FFFBI.”
“No, no! She’s a miss, but she’s not that! She’s gone!” Susan!
Our office, he advise a yak.
True Word Web OOk
I didn’t get an answer to these parables until the OOks walked out in evening and I pillaged their bed. Mr. Wolf continually advised not to eat the pig, got flustered when he heard. “VERY UNWOLFLIKE,” he said, “to eat the pig.” By then pig porriage was a dilemma with no lie. Pigs bigger than countries mounted the globe. Strangeloves. All nations figured in its fute. Confusing empires was how they thought to impose a sentence that would end the word.
OOkio, El OOkio as he was called by initiates who talked, said history was wrapped in the pig. Some called it a horse. Which meant, in case histories have to be free to say, pigs were a world website, 万葉集 of man'yōshū Japan, inhabited by a broadcast tower in Kyoto. Notwithstanding that the title sounded like Spanish, the central premise of the ’OOkio mystery school was Shingon-Shū, The True Word School. Surreptitious connections between it and Andalusia as the centuries pulled apart from ours were all flarfery and medical psi. True word servers never depended upon either language or geography. The public relations officer may have called himself OOkio, but was never deceived about the path confuting fact and myth.
In essence there were three OOk empires, Mom, Pop and Babe. I don’t say vampires, but you get the gist. Gist, geist, ghost how an OOk grew to 800 pounds and then grew legs. The three sizes of OOks all sang, “Bucky Bucket on the wall who’s the biggest OOk of all?” Confusing fact and myth in flarf, the wolf sang along the canal banks, “where oh where has lmy piggie gone,” but the best song comes at the end. It was more about people than terrain, for up in the Japan OOks porriage came with a moonstrous swell, which I am wanting to tell, which I will.
A lot thought each word was a disguise for something else. To quote from the manga Space Monkey: "OOKLET DOWNLOADs MONKEY GIANTS HERE." Is that be cool or what? While we were downloaded, The Moostrous wrote a sentence where each word ate itself perfectly, fantastically, self-consumed. Then the eight hundred pound downloading OOK came through with a six hundred pound grasshopper. This appeared in the pOp bOOk and Sue SmOOk Book who preceded these perfect word OOks
Fanastic drudgery.
Clearly it is hard to say the true word. Ook’s cousin, Bing BOOk, celebrated its loss with the genetic male. His micro chip choric Gretyl Strum, said that. Wetzel Hung, another cousin, and its sequel, und Meta Drang, ate their reading-eating the way a menu meant to be. Sop out. I’m boilin’ the nubbin. Sue Lit was real and dressed as a meal. You could get her with beverage and treats. What does a meal say but the same as any dinner. You say as much to the car in your driveway.
Box Cow Car
So flip this fish in the pan, why don’t cha. who wouldn’t want a car cow in the drive? Good mileage, there’s plenty of room and they give back methane. How many cars do that? If they escape the barn and the garage as Éclair Sue, as seen on moo vision as a prototype of them all, all marks suggesting myth have been deleted.
So assay the big. The walls of that garage modifided, confound. Door-widened, foundations reinforced. The chair was a two-story bus. Yes a car can ride a bus. Half of her slept above, half below. She called the street where she lived, Train Crossing. Out of her mouth giants whistled at night. Cherry Baby, they are not trains even if you think they are! One wall sagged in the corner of the floor. In the yard a little red conductor ran up and down at the crossing. He rang the caboose. The caboose rang the engineer. Thus was the OOkio Convergence demonstrated. Oops, all such references were to have been deleted on the way to Kansas, on the way to FEMA camp. That was where the goats were going to join the rest of us, but we mandate out the goat gossip.
So?
Well, so far we’ve been misreporting the allegory dude. Weight and Measure Sue. Compare her to a cow or car. Susa big box car. Psueda-big say. Call it Mr. Pig and wish she’s a horse (again). You can wish anything you want as long as the aluminum and barium rain down. You hope it clears. You hope! Go fig, that’s the point. It’s a disguise, a disguise in a guise, further cause to consume. What else was there to do? We imagine Sue with the smoke, the car, the crowds on a cloudy day of prurience. Sue came down the walk, she came down on the walk and scattered at dawn. Yellow tape cordoned her sunset arms.
Why don’t we just say it out so you can believe? Cause you disbelieve. We say it so you disbelieve. Then you believe. You think it’s hard to live on earth but not, which is the anther way of saying our pleasure to introduce the Pop Art Dame, sometimes called the Pleasure Dome Opiome, that Zanadu who Belched the Fute of time. And in case you don’t like it here, you can try it here. That biological starchitecture she curated, little red mouse and humanzee, the ble-ble art baby, Dudeney cow, flourescent cats, dogs and spider goats. The endless list. She was the Zanudu who married SueLit’s dad, G. Fute. If Sue is the dust and the goats go to Kansas in the carts, you see the pun, the belch is what sets things off when the 80 % go up. We’re selling a gloss of this on World WebOOk. Oops! They’re storing the coffin liners off Hoboken. It is given that the belch was tugboats. Thus the symbol consumes. G. Fute’s name which really was Mythril.
Susan could not go on living as she did. Ten to twenty megatons dispersed in air. Have to check the maps on this, but no person dared live on Mount Moon after that. When the President came to visit they stopped spraying. Of course they said the thing was not the thing. Sue got shorted, nub-narkled out with bone and a little Pam. We say that when the True Word came everybody went home. It was Susan’s nation! Woman come to the True Word School, allegory fit and gone.
It made one think of something the true man said who sucked out of his head the many boxes piled behind Ob-La-Dee, who spat. Rams with horns of gunfire went AaaadaBaa! Little dogs fired back, AbaDababa. Juveniles those, and goats. But the monkeys tied to Dame’s Bumper had to hop when she drove to town. We couldn’t reach the phone to warn or we’d have already called Animal Cruelty-- except they weren’t monkeys or goats or pigs any more! Encore! She’s gone, she’s gone, when thou knowest this! You goint to get the point to know. And one moe-thing, the song they sang around the camps went this:
Alle – gor – y, jaunty Allegory
Alle - gory, come to purify.
I will pluck a Guap,
I will pluck a Turk,
Pluck a Turk,
make a Moo
pluck a leg,
have a rib,
me the chuck,
you the roast,
him that wants
take the back,
her the front,
allegor, allegot,
O-o-o-oh!
Bio: Clues of the WebOOk are strewn. One almost hopes the gloss fulfills. Recent reviews public and free clue what says, “you know who I am, says Yah, when I bring you out of the grave. When sacrificers of men kiss the calves they make with their hands, those images worship, take your words and render the calves of your lips, for neither with the work of your hands or the work of your minds will I revive you as corn.”
By the way, the Snoutzer was from Globe.
Remnants of Yaunty Leg
There’s an excuse for eating OOks!
The Double OO reminds!
Here’s how: Mix a batch, place in the oven on“ON.” Boil to the nubbin, parcel out to homes. Separate the commercial, things are not the same.
Nay madam, say it is!
This doubt is! Who pays the taxes, gets the permits?
You know who pays. But who buys?
Who buys! Who buys! Here come the police. Staring pence across the lidless eyes. What happened to the lids? Why does the air steam? No other way to cross? These questions are worth your time.
Neighborhoods are zoned for cannibalism?
Why not just deny and pay the rent?
She ate him. She ate her. That’s it.
You wanting Aesop and a couple songs?
Popera, what did you there?
“I seen a Due Date.”
That’s it folks.
Boothoven bang the door, stalk the room, opens the piano and pounds: “Now it done!”
When she gone,
the moon and sun,
stars in the sky,
know, ow, the reason
why she’s gone,
yes, she’s gone. Now
“She’s gone, yes, she’s gone.
“And when thou knowest this thou knowest that fair carcass Sue Lit is.”
2.
But now it’s done it can be un. Just when you get all prettied up.
Decorated Figs! Analogues whelm the sea. It starts up. Rum, rum.
3.
He said he was reading in the Avanet Bookstore, but made the whole thing up. They was just two fatties on the berm. The fatties left their dents where there should be prints. Macroprints Her name was Janga before she changed it to Guapa. J and G silent. She did actually work, but it was a red Olds that smoked, I’m not sure you got that, but nothing was weird about it unless you count the chickens or the fabulous gaseous emissions. How that morphened into the fire we’re here to show. About dawn there was so much smoke of crowds. Matty the Rooster sounded the alarm, but really, there were no sirens, just smoke from her car. I was therefore not searching microfiche.
It also said in the article that it was Tuesday, but that it was smudged. Errors crept in: not microfish, monkeys, goats, chickens, red Olds, fire, smoke or crowds. All lies. All folksy gory. Her routine was the archetype. I studied at Jung! This emerges on tape. The neighbors were watching Sue x 3. That you think, you’d know if it was allegory.
Into the
Imbroglio quincunx
Gathered pandemonium .
And now you are free to graze among the unlicensed plates.
The Remains of Lit and Und on Shunt
The Argument
UndPrint
on the inland border
was an enforcer, had a gun.
SueLit looked like him, but she had hair.
Sidewalks cracked where they stood together.
Depressions of their feet in the park drowned little dogs.
Nobody connected UndPrint¹s disappearance
With Damer¹s purchase of a walk-in freeze.
Presumption credits that the Dame,
UndPrint¹s second spouse,
had too much brew the night
that Und was shanked and smoked.
To put
it plainly, things were going well until the murder. Call it what you will when
Lit and Und were killed. Damer showed aesthetic taste, seemed to want them as
an oeuvre, a delicate preserve. Yes, frozen they would have stayed, although
some metaphysical part to this remains.
When the freezer broke, well, that's too discreet. It was broken
into, pillaged, its remains dispersed over town. We are not talking just
literal meat. Dragons want the good, not food, gold and all the gold wherein
Lit's body was preserved.
Two levels occur. One physical and literal, with murder, meat and
thieves. The other metaphysical, where murder by carnal appetite is more like
allegory. Once murdered, pandering I guess to lower nature, to boors, literary
swells and the personal, Lit's corpse lost truth, whatever. First remains were
parceled out on shunt, the web. Multiplied by thinning, increased in space and
time, even with gruel the dragon could survive. Concepts seem to fail. The End.
Here's the tale.
The Myth
Dramatis Personae:
UndPrint:
The Behemoth in New York.
Guapa Sue Lit: His daughter, Literature.
The Shunt is Inter-et.
Damer is carnal appetite.
The freezer holds bicephalids.
The park is Mother English.
The little dogs, puppoets.
In
myth, the publishing industry of New
York is UND or UndPrint, known as Halfling Talk or
sometimes Turk from its weakness for verse. It, or he, would walk the park with
that equally obese progeny and protégé LIT. There is a family
resemblance.
Guape (a) was her name, but not in the Latin sense. In the Saxon it
is gape or galp, "pando (j)aepe." We call her Guapa
Sue. Und and Lit, Talk and Gape together, have many names. Their massive size
made huge BICEPHALIC IMPRINTS in the park.
This PARK is language where their footprints swamp and swell, endangering nouns. The imprints made by Und and Lit filled with water and drowned little dogs. These dogs are the PUP-POETS who did not belong to Lit, but even so followed Und, their greatest enemy that endangered them. If little dogs lost make us sad, when we compare that with what happened to Halfling and his Dirk, taking cue from their referents in Und and Gape, we confront our ultimate fear.
UndPrint's
second wife was both carnal appetite and its embodiment. They used to call
these emblems. She was the awesome DAME. She certainly could be called a dragon
of appetite, though you might think her merely government. She kept the house
of Und and Lit, but slaughtered them and stored the first remains.
Carnal appetite's pit sides fall in where you stand. Dragon strikes
endanger many lives. Why do people stand on shores and look at skies? Why stare
at monitors, image in a glass? The pit is apposite an inward search. The
beaches, benches are crowded there. But to make the matter short, both Lit and
Und were consumed though they nurtured and made hungry appetite itself. This is
quite unfair, to quote the bane, who said, some are made to be victims.
Add to
the referents Und, Lit, and Dame, the SHUNT, for all too soon SueLit was
parceled out with Print. The thigh bone severed from the knee when Damer's
freezer was broken in.
Allegory spells it out, daily UndPrint and darling Lit may look like
chickens hung on hooks, but not. Quick hands on boxes down the hooks, but there
is no sausage, ham. Only Gorgon.
For all that, more was left of Gape than Talk because Turk was taken
full three years before. Und and Lit were broadband soon on Shunt. You see what
it means. More late nights, electricity, people thinking they know it all as
dragons reproduce.
Exhumed to this inland border, Shunt-conveyed remains of these
behemoths kept like mastodons in ice was at first glance right. Science is
based on theft. The dung of 10,000 years is more important than thought. You
think that's funny but it's not. If all that's left of the past is dung and
bone, how important for our next world the victims frozen in Dame's home. Which
made it all more devastating when they were stolen.
Damer thought she could live off them for years, gave no thought to
dinner when they were gone. Recycle where you can, dragons. This cavernous lack
of planning itself implies appetite might not survive.
Only E
pubs on Shunt remained, recombined both torsos into one, distributed as
inter-et on their own. This was the Dame's last sustenance. Ironically, Und
Halfling Talk was a precursor of this Darjeeling
shunt. It is called Darjeeling
for that global pressure point. The remains of Und and Lit on Shunt
recombined the torsos of Talk and Gape, called Egenerate.
Recombinant genera of fish and cow we know. What should we call this?
Chowder, stew? Dame's recombinant carnal appetite reconsumed Shunt's
combined craze: closed loops, solipsists and their troops, that is, the frozen
remains. To give it its due.
We
inquire further of Talk's first spouse and wife, because that Dame was his
second. Whether she married before Halfling Talk is uncertain. She was second
but was he her first? We want to get Gape's mother in on this.
The answers are myth.
We backtrack to what Und was, which tips it. It's a typo. Und was Un.
So Und first married Un and begot Lit.
Could there really be two beginnings that produce another shunt?
Carnal appetite always wants good eats. What did it eat before Lit
steaks?
Lit survived three years from New
York's demise, then was burgled. Had Halfling Talk
been appetizer enough we wouldn't have had to have SueLit on Shunt.
Clearly, carnal appetite knows no bounds. Itself contracted myth, was maw consumed. We do admire how Hrothgar ate and was eaten, but that was before Shunt's war. Now the Dame, a remote control monster, can be triggered from afar. Not that that is better than the rest. Remember to say it together:
carnal
appetite,
carnal appetite,
carnal appetite
has taken the very best.
Political allegory abides religion. Damer cannibalizing Lit, supplants men, who had been doing it. At least many so intimated, but it's hardly the job of literature to decide. We mirror only what we see. The rest is left behind.
The Key
These
plot wrinkled, home burgled, frozen remains parceled over town have given
moderns pause before the fridge. But is this an allegory or what? There are no
dissertations in the social science sense, no invoking Levi Strauss. These
theories built into an urban myth had the effrontery to ascribe our
darling Lit.
No, all myths don't look like Fafnir. He was promoted dragon from
being dwarf, so he bettered himself. Nobody compares him to Puff or Damer.
All-knowing dragons are pretty innocent. True knowledge is closer to ignorance.
We all know that.
Giants are a lot less knowing though, and you can certainly count
father and daughter among those, allowing for the encephalic heads. But to who
else but Fafnir can we go to think about the unthinkable consumed?
Dragons and giants essentially lead to this, that our ideas are
basically myth and we are devouring ourselves as we speak.
In myth's supposed picture, archetype, the reverse of what's thought
is true. If you think the false is true, true false and the opposite of
real is real, like in movies, fiction, life is fairy tale.
That it is before your eyes at all is to the curious and dedicated
history of these times just a footnote.
Bio: AE works in Poemix as a moderator of hydrocarbon degradation. Alcohol Ethoxylate (exulate) transports surfactant to poetry spills where oil droplets cleave to the molecules small enough for microbes to digest. This is packaged commercially. More surfactant can be obtained at various listed sites.
Bear Pig Wold Told
You think it’s three little pigs, but when the wolf comes you remember. This is a land where pigs grow up to be bears and eat a porridge so moonstrous nobody has seen the like. Am I supposed to tell? I will.
One day these OOks went for a walk in the park and turned them into bears, which might have been an improvement except the bears perhaps would eat the pig, the pig would eat the porridge and the wolf would be faced with the dilemma of whether, if it could eat the pig at all, it would have to be as big as a country, as big as a state. In that day, when round countries surrounded the globe, they were too big to chuckle under chin.
Once there were these three big Ooks. A Mama, a Poppa and a baby. Baby Ooks are cute, empires and all, but they grow up to be as big as ooks can be. I used to think 600 to 800 pounds before the bucket filled. But now the bucket has legs, and walks and talks: Buck, buck, bucket on the wall, who’s the largest of them all?
As such this would be a tale about the future. Were it thought to impose the burden of a sentence. For civilization depended on each word. like,"OOKLET DOWNLOADs GUAPA MAMA GIANTS HERE." Would be or not.
When we were downloading that sentence reading " each word stood for an element in a series that ate itself, so fantastically self-consumed it didn't know.
Ook Apps
The OOk App is coming.
Shopping carts circle fires on access
roads, villages built up over years. I
took a look at the driftwood cooking meat. The neighbors wouldn't talk. It was
up to me.
I burgled their houses while foraging.
OOk Apps will downfall Homo sap, take his women underground. People on waterways know it. They infiltrate into yards.
There are Ook apps in hidden documents, similarities. These are named. But people don't want discussion. Government knows and is afraid. You see analogies. Draw your own conclusions.
The common name of Ook is itself a pun. In the city called a wild akk, it is an app in country homes. The cook can be a wild ook. That's easy.
This beast resembles Homo sap, but Homo
yak you've heard. Two legs, hairy,
breeds in open places. Research nears completion. Even considering its inner
nurture is a problem.
The App has affronted many people. Detectors at home centers are probably being ookufacted by the beasts themselves. The cultured ask when ookufact began. Read on.
If beasts within, within where we'd like to know. Gentle Wagner? Asking atavistically, if they're different from our neighbors, are they different from our friends? Fatal to mistake from either end. People on waterways know Ook App is planning to download Homo sap. There aren't many choices. Either Ook App is bestial or we are ourselves!
Neighbors dream that monsters with gills and
horny heads steal children along the canals. Project Canal
denied this when revealed. But it explains the acid burns on arms.
Citizens with questions want to know. Shall we go down canal, defend our homes?
Humanitarians argue take the Ook App view. How does it feel to the youth in combat,
lied to, told by superiors "oh, it's just a bruise," when a .22 long
rifle exits below?
Psychologists reconstruct these dreams with fears, but people are being asked
to understand that the Ookian in us is
us and we them. What happens if when shot in the neck, human child beside, acid
glands moldering, generals send innocents to their demise? Or are we men?
People ignore slime on banks, troughs,
signs where webbed feet climbed. They ignore dreams. Do not argue the list the
Ook ap is making, rumors that occur in the Ook ap taking that appear in
unguarded talk we intend to forestall.
To make the danger clearer we have penned a
chorus. Go around, shout, "That Ooking ap." It's urgent to break into
mass mind.
Is this confessing it there? We could go around naming, say you're a
Ook ap. It's hard to be wrong. Somebody's one!
Many urge addresses. "Which one is
this, this one and this?" Alas I was born for such a time.
I'm not saying give beast a chance. I'm
saying take our country back. Yap math teaches
parts unequal to the whole. Their literature teaches less is more. Easily turned,
these attempts define ourselves. Is your experience of more more or is it less?
If Yap promises more, don't you bawl and bawl?
Isn't that already on cereal packages? But is he him or us? Does it sound like
your boss, your brother? That's the problem! Without a label how can anyone
know?
Dispelling rumors we probe the poetry of this beast, eprimitive in waiting. The Wonk is skillful in disguise. He uses protective coloring. He talks like a Ookocrat. He talks like a plebiscite. There's a Ook ap history, that's plain. There is a fundamental Ook feeling. These people don't go to school. They swim the Atlantic for krill and are commonly found in libraries and buildings.
Ook aps aspire to high office. They don't creep on bellies in slime. They are
not a thing mother got at grocery, teddy and furry fluff.
Wonk Yaps practice, indoctrinate their young to be like us. Dark
within, where no man has gone, where blood pounds the fish groggy with plume,
Ook ap flourishes, plans and pumps out the rhetoric of mastermind.
The Ook ap thinks it's perfect. Why else would it want your wife? Why does it live in your yard? Veni vidi vinci, in other words, "me man, me." How do you know when a man acting bestially is a man or a Yap acting humanely?
A guy from Billings wrote in to ask about his dad. He
asked, "How do I know if the shrunken head my dad got in Ecuador in the
'30s isn't the head of a monkey?" This treasure, this thing is our
problem. Have you never suspected the entire cow buried beneath one skull in a
garden? I went for proof, shot my pencil down. It was as soft as peanut
butter. No bone was interred. If the
bones are thus elusive, to what lengths must these creatures go to preserve
their anonymity!
The Ook is burrowing, insinuating,
sneaking. Has it a soul? Can it be saved? To these burning questions who
answers can give? Homo sap must decide while Ook ap is creeping whether
to reach down and engage him in dialogue like Tolstoy. Or is it better to drive
him out to waste places, assuming we cannot at this late date eradicate the
manster?
Thinking ookishly may defeat him. Think
ook! Hardly is that wack out when an image troubles my site. Have you seen it
too? It is diabolical and cunning, sly and self serving.
Does it sound like someone you know?
Is your grammarian an Ook? Will civilization overturn from poultry
workers? Taxi drivers? Journalists? Teachers? John McCain? Eek! Have you no
pity for a child clutched by an app? Would Ook app be the vanguard of
homogenization, removed difference in interest of ambiguity? Yes, yes, and of
course, no, to all the above.
Ook is smarter than believed. It can strip
your trees with furry ants. It can regulate the air. Breathe freely now, the
App meter is running. Will they not Ook? Let them not breathe!
Ook wokery! Woeful popery! The Ookeries themselves are teeming yet not fully
known.
Cabalists have it that you will rush down to the pet shop to liberate a pensioner. Will you? If so they have won. Do you approve them umpiring the Major Leagues? Government computers theorize hybrid forms are making other forms, proof that the thing that looks like a thing is another thing and not the thing you think.
Writers speak of Ook apps and longsocks, begets of og and bobbleys, of bogaries, facquis, lopi rotisseries and wacquries! An egg will look like a gibbous moon. If it looks like us and talks like us and acts like us. How do we know it ain't?
Definneration
SueLit and UndPrint
Many conundrums Confuc lit first. with classics and condoms we talk, but it’s not gendered bediddle Myth. Guapo stands for Unpublishing. He is the “fadder” of SueLit. She is the poetry myth. They all be Guaps. That much is clear in the bigotry.
You may call what she stands for progenitate “daughter,” byproduct itself, Here’s Lit! SueLit! That’s unless you think lit come up from the boot and not down from the hat, in which case to toot we do not mean to defame. You can’t have da one witout the udder. Booty baby, these things are not all made up in songs.
The third part element is that gigantico step dame, the Big Hug Damer, appetite, real desire, harder to ascribe, She, it, primal urge, prurient, veiled unconscious storm proud that consumed Sue Lit and her Dad, Big Und. Big Undaddy! Big Unddy! Like a palace in Africa. This made serious without a toot. Probably you could take a business course to find it. There are questions that Susan Lit lived home with Dame in a gingerbread big house. Why didn’t she note what Step was going on? That’s like asking why a book can’t read itself or a metal digest?
Sue see was an immigrant from France. See could sing Alloutte. That was her purpose. It was a bit of luck. That is a bit of her back. But there’s more in the Hummer, that is, She’s from Globe, a little place itself that spins where nobody knows. It’s a big treat whirling in space inhabited by people who confuse. On this symbolic top is a nacho like a hat, but the literal Globe like the genome, sits on a T shirt. SUELIT it says, right below the tits:
SUE LIT
Interprets Mythogeme
This hinders more than it helps because all Round SueLit stretch long lines. There are lines everywhere. At gas pumps, underneath in pits. We know the truth, but we better give out the whole. On the front was the back and on the back was this poem. It stretched all the down to her boing.
mythogomists know,
mythogomists past,
reemergent Net
Mythogeme sex
talk Myth.
Tall Guapa Myth
adverse this
Step Dame
urge appetite,
consumed SueLit,
GuapUnd.
Sue’s immigrant
years on Globe,
stacked her chest
with plumes of smoke:
S E L T
U I
Now take up the charterers one.
SueLit is the publishing ind of Nuke Yak (NWKY) called UND Print, a palindrome recombinant Egenerate electric. pub to print
UND Print was also known as Halfling Talk because of an insistence upon romance, and as a shortening from his name Big Turk (Turk Tums Musselman) as much as from weakness for the verse of Squawk which dissertations wrote out. When texts say he walked the park with fat, or fate, as it is spelled in the life of NWK, meaning superfluous flarfarric floof and not lipoderm precise, his equally obese protégé and progeny, LIT, implied the inhabed nook ( NWK).
Also though Park was the lenga itself, so before we get to Guape, (a) [Lit, Sue Myth] whose name in early Saxon was gape or galp, part of the one gourmand which moderns call Guap Sue, her G is silent.
Und and Lit, Talk and Gape, Turk and Sue together made their names shape into giant imprints in the park. It was a prereq imprint, both the print and the sonic ground where they left their root [foot].
This PARK as a lengua much infested footprint swamp. They swell, even more when you add rain. The dilemma is, for the meta requires ecosphere, that the depressions they make will fill. It is not determined for what the water stands, or how deep for filling imprints. Endangered nouns, those little dogs named for their proprietors, meaning the speech of poets who are called little dogs because they lick the gates of the giant Und and threaten to drown in verbiage. Follow the track of these PUP-POeTS who live by industry, so that if they don’t belong to Lit, they follow Und for curry sauce and chance a crumb, though Und in fact endangers them.
Little Dogs Lost make a good sad book compared with what may hap to Halfling and his Dirk (change the names, protect the innocent, make up minds), the import swallowed by comparative amnesty. Pup Pots are incidental from the great cued referents Und and Gape. You need a graduate degree! But in the confront ultimate fear, which is UndPrint's wife, that AWESOME DAME, they ate. She ate, she ate, when thou believest this... thou knowest the flagon appetite this Dame is which for the minute seems like government or verse, but it in fact is the participant. In myth she kept the house of Und and Lit, but slaughtered them and stored the first remains. Ouch is the appropriate response to evil in the tale. We can ask, as if it mattered, but the real question is what Dame exactly did. What she did is she killed the cow and ate the barn. She ate Suelit with all the trimmings. Thus it was said there was a moocow coming down the road for both Und and Lit, that very thing that fed the nicens cow. So call Dame appetite censorship, and think her like a pit whose sides fall in around all the whole known world. Rising out the pit, the Dragon Strikes. These microcosms endanger many lives. Pit is pendulum knowledge of all the search in Lit and worse, much macrocosmically consumed. Both Lit and Und Dame nurtured. Maturity makes hungry appetite eat all kinds. That’s the allouttte too.
Add to these ingredients Bob SHUNT, not so obvious from the front, but what else call dispersal of the fleshy remains, since all too soon that heathen meat was lusty entertained. SueLit was parceled out with Print (ie. Und) which means consumed and eaten. This happened when the thigh bone knee hung in Damer’s freeze and was broken in. The beak, the claw, the neck, the jaw! Daily UndPrint and Darling Lit may look like chickens hung from hooks, but hands from on boxes down took no sausage, man, or ham. Ham is ipod, sausage igod, flash drive J (G)orgon. To discriminate isms, more was left of Gape [Sue] than Talk, because the late besetter survived the former Wii Windows, that is, Turk was taken full three years before. Bodies of Und and Lit from print went broadband on Bob Shunt. We have to get though to people. It is the information age. So dispersed, allegory is a picture book. Shunt means electric nights and people thinking they’re at ease to reproduce. All that wagon, truck and train was but literal before the shunt became, which, exhumed from the freeze to this inland-border of the virtual mind., was made complete. That’s Shunt.
Oh Shunt Most Free! the Shunt-conveyed-remained ebemoths kept like mastodons on ice. At first glance this was right out of the past thousand dungs imported by advice. You think that's funny but it's not; who has not left a record in the pot? If that's all that’s left, both dung and bone on our world Shunt, organic genome frozen in Dame's home, how much more the devastation that these were stolen?
It’s like the missing Palyatchee (Pagliacci) evidence gone. Damer probably thought she could live on it. A thousand years she gave no thought to dinner if they disappeared. The motto here, if so inclined, is that dragons should recycle where they can. This cavernous lack of planning implies appetite itself might not survive.
Ultimately on E pub Shunt remained. Both torsos survived Vispo, lang po, we woe, and all more or less combined in one, distributed as Inter-et Alone, if you accept the pun, but it is more. Interrnet, Interet, inter-eat Dame. The remains of Und and Lint so recombined, as Talk and Gap ( to us their old names), were made E-GENERATE. So here they come. Recombinant genera of fish and game we know. But what do we call this? Chowder, stew? We be along digesting that:
Dame's recombinant carnality reconsumed Shunt's craze. Those closed loops, meaning solipsists and their troops, the frozen remains. Exactly what became of Lit, who survived three years from NWK’s demise, although the length of a year is vague. Had Halfling Talk been appetite enough we’d not have had to have SueLit on Shunt.
Let’s visit sometime.
The Imprints of Und
This process has been compared to genetically altered intelligence of animals called Uping, images scanned to a virtual fit that cut away the birth. As for the turnip remains, head struck in flesh, that lives in a way. When Lit rolled Poe and engendered Pound, she got old but still had hair, senescent the older she begot, reverse evolution was her po(e)t.
You see why Hydrocephalic Giants in socks book the Great Und sight unseen in city canyons. There they breed more imprints of themselves than they can eat. Their minions care for them and tidy up, but can see them giants pop.
Invisible giants are social. We use colorants to catch them in a net like wind and squirm for gravitation, but the best sign of tried and true tracks or mutant imprints are the ballooning mushroom heads whose pallor of skin is a lot like mushroom caps. Few encephalapod stalks are tough. Their bone littered dens and besotted hydrophobic bits are cleaned by little dogs.
They eat poets to that end and wit and blurb suffice to make more farms where these are grown. Mouthful Feeding Anomaly they consume like candy bits. The more they eat the more they get. The question for little dogs is how to make the giants appear.
Giants slay worldwide by their presence. Encephalitic reality is territory. Footprints on earth are not sole artifacts. You follow the imprints on the moon, but had you, you would expect a hole. To cast that hole, produce a slump. At meteor crater, impact space is called nihil solipsis, twisted out. We hardly think there an imprint at all, they’re so big they’re hard to see, surrounding all with folds of metaversal flesh, confined to the phenomena going on while we lead ordinary lives.
Another sign of giants is obesity whose quantities increase from many farms and groups of readers in town. These consume, for giants feed their cows and chickens, readers and thinkers of the day, with artificial feed as we do herds. They don’t graze unpastured as they used. In feedlot libraries and slaughterhouse U’s, what is consumed is not seen. It is the mind flesh monoploid eats.
That leaves behind a lot of walking shells. It takes a sheet to catch the wind. In buildings, down basements, respect the mind they feed. Better cuts of mind meat too, professors of mind-yum.
The encephalic Family Und consumes also the cousins. Each discipline aids the dole. Science is more active than poets, religious schools galore and industry on larger scale is why the populace grows six billion today, eleven billion tomorrow. Giants are multiplying fast, but market too much food, measuring populations by the feed.
Eat more, eat more, they plead until you pop. The solution is, since the food base grows, create more markets, make more people need to colonize. Then other planets may be assigned. No food is greater than this need.
Plu-pup sugar tit,
birth squirm squibs,
ask not what to do
with language weaned of Lit.
A Note on the Text
This text by an author called El Ephod, a pen name no doubt, is an interlineated text. Glosses and illustrations overwrite the original, which process another treatise is required to describe. The overwriting could not be duplicated here. A fair copy though, traced on first exam, was saved from the cataclysm. The text by El Ephod is interlineate, three texts written over top of each. The overwriting could not be duplicated here. A treatise would be required to describe the glosses and illustrations of the original. In the words of the author, das ist ein und.
Footprints of Pegasus
She come from the footprints of Pegasus, pierced polar night where the cap pokes down.
Hip mama take you winking!
Sue smoke a cloudy dawn!
She smoke a cloudy dawn.
***
A cloudy toy.
It was done in relays.
Boosty sack-ups jet.
Someone made wholesale that day.
Someone stuck grandma’s house fridge!
Rushed a girl, banged a chest, snuck a fridge.
Her home Mom’s Westinghouse, wrapped, done up what hundreds never dreamed
Sitteth there, the paper dubbed the news.
Who called police, report indeed Sue miss?
The newspaper called the news.
The Dame-reader, proligigator-tinker, freezer empty feared her bread on the floor.
***
A petrolman filled out the card, took insurance, figured forms. His name was Norm. Next day, Dave Cash, detected. Peace broke out don’t you know. result of that night’s collect.
Step Dame let him. No warrant instigated crime.
Living room led to dining, dining freeze to kitch, kitch to solid eight by ten. How much is that kitchen in the window? En passant. Kn to Q1! Bang, he pondered entry at dawn.
“So they took your meat.”
“Yes, they did! My daughter’s missing and I don’t know why.
Crime, crime, crime, crime, crime, Allegory crime.
Crime, crime, crime, crime is the man on the phone. Mars, to earth.
Crime is the next best the missing purse! Crime the time!”
“Have you filed a missing purse report?”
“No sir, She’s gone! After all the trouble I took to get her right! What can I now?”
“Can‘em and dry’em, and smoke’m up too, put in a vacuum. Lit is for you!”
I discovers it.
“Well, Ma’am, like I said, you file a missing purse report and if it doesn’t turn up in thirty days we can give it to the FFFBI.”
“No, no! She’s a miss, but she’s not that! She’s gone!” Susan!
Our office had advise a yak.
A Fairy Tale
by El Ephod
You can question whether this myth of man and his daughter is like Red Riding Hood, but don’t judge them only for their weight. The wife may be bigger than both. That Dame swallowed the allegory. Guap! She stored the remains in a tub and walked off in a freeze, a walk-in freeze. Three years later she repeat the allegory daughter, das ist ein Und, we repeat.
We imagine Susan as a car with crowds on a cloudy day, and of course the smoke. Susan came at us like a sunset gawk, like pictures on a can of soup. Susan came at us at dawn too, but by then police tapes had cordoned off. Arms waved. Crowds of voices greeted her gloaming.
I was researching microfiche when I found out. I knew at first her name was Guap and that she worked nights. When she came home in the days her car smoked, but that word was smudged in the report. At dawn there was so much smoke crowds gathered as if for a fire. Many roosters sounded like sirens. There was no fire really, and no sirens, just smoke from her car, but expectations had gone up.
It said in the article that it was Tuesday, but do not hold to the date. Not that it was smudged. Daily routine gives a sense of hope. The neighbors were watching Susan like an archetype. You think you’re different?
Who wouldn’t want a moo cow coming with all the trimmings. Drip. Drip. Éclair Susan was great as a cow. That likened her to a vision. It was a prototype, all earmarks of a mother myth. What have I done but find it out?
Literally then, so far to assay the meaning, she was big. The fence rows of that house that surrounded her were forerunners, the foreigners. At that time she could still live in a building like you and me. Modifications, doors for instance widened, foundations reinforced, her chair reversed a two-story bed. Her hall was like a bowling lane. Sometimes pundits named her Polly. There were verses on her wall. One sagged in the corner while the little red phone was ringing in the yard. Those who ate the subsequent thought it exaggeration that *goats were texting. Should we leave the goat gossip for another time?
So science suffered its ecoplasm and everything affects else.
This reportage dude is my meat. Susan stands for big fate. Her Greatness, called giantess, disports Lit as we speak, with trimmings, read guises. This you really take for granted and hope it comes clear in the telling. Tale and lament. Licorice fact. She was the meat, point number one. Two, she was loved by all. Her paradoxy demise caused an arousal of desire. Consume! What you hold on to, but here came Dame Belcher. Call her Future. She married the father, G. Turk Musselman. Also Myth. She consumed SueLit. Aren’t words enough? Obese allegory, here comes desire as symbol.
Susan should not have lived where she did. No white person lived on the slopes of Danger Mountain. She was shorted down to blubber. They saw her and loved that largess. She is nation! She is woman. Word went home. They came to Susan. Come to Susan! Allegory lit and appetite gone wrong ruled mountain and main.
So many kindreds gathered when she pulled up to the curb in her wed car smoking. Yes’m Peep storked, and Lydia cried abu da ba bee.
It was later men in potato sacks stuck their heads out of boxes behind the 7-11s. said that ittle
* These goat gossips were tied to the Buick that Damer drove in town. A ram with horns went aba aabaa. It couldn’t reach the phone. The little dogs to whom goats sang were originally paperbacks. Also, the Snoutzer was from Globe.
2.
Her name was Myth and she worked nights in Die Bowling-Strassen renting shoes. When she came home her day car vented smoke. I, researching microfiche, found the word smudged in the copy vas vulkan! probably volcano, written in Dutch, When she put the pedal down erupting you could hear further.
.
At dawn, it said the chickens stirred people at their windows expecting fire. Then mighty voices ran like sirens. That vas wat drew da crowd on walks. Windows did the business in directions, gather finger pointing brisk. No engines came but Sue. Just in the midst be a soup can picture wit dis. Which was arms waved. Mob and crowd secreted her gloaming. Don’t say it was a Gawk. Actual day makes no difference if it’s happening all the time. Tuesday neighbors were watching Suse. You think you’d done different?Prurience is like this.
We have not assayed her meaning. She vas big. Her chair flirted with a two-story bed. They had a hamper romance between the pert chair and a Fairy! Sometimes we name her Molly, but no dialogue from the bed except the monster wall sagged in a corner of floor. You need put in those four hour jobs. Also, a red phone was ringing in the yard where goats were gossiping. Should we leave goat gossip for another time? You ate Susan and you Worry Goat? You worry pigeons? The whole universe is singing about roses and wasps, one of the little ditties:
♪♪ Ecoplasm Earth ♪♪
♪♪ Ecoplasm Earth ♪♪
So when dudes call it fate and the giantess sprouts Sue Lit in her guise this is no blog. She was big, that’s the point. She was loved and admired by all if you will, We can say her demise was a cause at school, the death of Lit, that desire to consume. Are worlds obese? I mean that Dame Belch, her Flab Flut, the one who married G. Turk, symbol of all who consumed. just by which we can call.
She lived where none dared. down nubbin, parceled bone! Largess ruled nation. Word went home. Her! More came. She in the artery lite, appetite gone wry.
Kindreds gatted when she pulled up in the smoke.
3.
Susan’s father, Mr. SolongTurk, had a eight hundred pound party sloop on the Danger sea. He were hairless.
Susan looked like him, but she had hair man
Sidewalks cracked
Depressions left by their feet when they stood together in the park. Little dogs! Hardly are those words when drowned little dogs.
They were wider than outtakes at a nude shop.
Naked bathers connected with a Dread Dame purchase of a walk-in freeze.
It says all that here. 8x10. It was Presumption! It’s the Dame! Turk’s second spouse, credo brew the night that Turk got smoked with too much years before Susan entered mise en scène.
Sure they were nice.
Small dogs had disappeared!
Yes, goats populated the piles.
What did you expect to do, car licenses for oleanders?
Clouds of smoke roared from the Dame’s chimney. growing of debris junked
For all that they were quiet
There was never a loud noise unless you count the chickens or the occasional Folks emission.
Belches among the elves were pleasant. You thought if you lived off Hoboken where ferries and tugboats echoed at night. in themselves were pleasant. with buoys
In that world, home from the bowling leagues, came Sue.
She rented balls and schuhe.
As always crowds gathered. Men pinched women and shook gaseous hands. Traffic beeped for blocks. Autobahn were poured.
Susan had seat of her car removed so she could drive from de back.
She was that tall.
And she was wide.
Anthropologists dated her.
Blocks on the pedals enabled them to pump her up and down.
Do you get that this is no joke, but odious as the cause of all decay that stops a hole to keep the wind away?From the front. From the back
Do you get that Step Dame ate through the eco-redux!
This is a sign of our time. right Women doing what men all along. Quartering purple mountains, do-piping fruit.
That’s the excuse for eating Susan.
Who profits but developers?
Who pays the taxes, permits? Governments!
Neighbors cannonballed cannibalism.
Are you waiting for me to tell you plain?
That’s it bro. Zoning. She ate She ate. Which thou knowest.
It's a case of provocation and murder.
One day over here she was there. The next day, she gone in the words of Donne:
“She gone, she gone, when thou know this
thou know what fair carcass this world is.”
But the worst was come.
Susie made her merry o’er hill and dale. Sneakers wagon and under arm refrigerator pots of that bound by the Danger way
Dark moon cool light, crisp slivered porches opened up.
arias, like a concrete bucket.
Susan was not been seen for weeks.
chickens like hell ditches.
The homeless drifted in alleys. one or two
Dame Fortune swept on her unmaking. him. her. Jan, sweet
Freezer humps. breeze blues.
Sixty Watt tramped out the back of Damer’s hutch smashed.
et too, that sissy bulb got smashed.
Hedgerows frantical ran round the autogags, prototypes, (the readers, the sleepers, proponents,)) couldn’t be seen. Hedgerows! Hardly hedgerows. Little lines of joke, run wild.
They came in through the bathroom window. Wordsworth was stuck on the wall Supporting wood
Shout cuidado! Pflege! Fliege!
You’d think glass would make a tinkle,
new safety glass, louder than a county attorney breaking,
louder than fir trees slipping into plywood shorts
for booties this season.
Spend a dendrous winter!
How many came is still taking census. A syndicate implies the body gone far. at least their feet Something like
Wagons and tricycles biked up to trains and trucks backed up to Meet the Press in the alley.
And what did those bandits do when they came to the massy door, the freezer nosed room running off the kitchen ? Maginot! “dieses foul outrage, fffliedersehen
Out! Look out! but it was bicycles,
Agencies never take warning.
Did you see them round the cold room, poke fists in closets before they opened the bed? The beef? Ploop. Cold door! Plop! fast
Did they see chickens hung on claws like hooks Quack-cluck!
Was it packed, to blame housewife who can’t remember. Is it roast under the veil, loin on claw? in the self, fat veal? Yea! Be ye compartment! room, room.
You only see hiim dimly. Freezer light tonight. To a better world we send them.
You better see it quickly.
No place linger winter nights. would take you.
Quick hands roust white packs.
Up on boxes, down the hooks!
Fat sausage hares or arms?
Sausage! not bright.
What hams?
Delicious dread bite Jorgon!
She come from the cold footprints of Pegasus, pierced polar night where the cap pokes down.
Cold mama Hippocrene would take you winking at the brim!
Susan smoke and cloudy day!
Sue who stood the walk and played, dressed, a dream, a ji-ji-ghost that would romance. Expectations away!
Guapa Sue.
***
It was done in relays.
Boosty sack-ups jet.
Someone made wholesale that day.
Some grandma’s house stuck fridge!
Some rushed a girl and banged a chest, snuck her home a fridge, Mom’s Westinghouse, wrapped, done up. that hundreds never dreamed
Sitteth there, the paper dubbed the deed a news.
Who called police, report Sue miss?
The Dame-reader, the proligigator-tinker freezer empty feared her bread on the floor.
***
A petrolman filled out the card, took insurance, figured forms. His name was Norm. Next day, Dave Cash, detected, peace broke out don’t you know. result of that night’s collect.
Step Dame let him. No warrant instigated crime.
Living room led to dining, dining freeze to kitch, kitch to solid eight by ten. En passant. Kn to Q1! Bang, he pondered entry.
“So they took your meat.”
“Yes, they did! My daughter’s missing and I don’t know why.
Crime, crime, Allegory crime. Crime, crime, is the man on the phone. Mars, to earth. Crime is the next best Crime is the missing purse! the time!”
“Have you filed a missing purse report?”
“No sir, She’s gone! After all the trouble I took to get her right! What can I now?”
Can ‘em and dry’em, smoke’m up too, put in a vacuum. Lit is for you!
I discovers it.
“Well, Ma’am, like I said, you file a missing purse report and if it doesn’t turn up in thirty days we can give it to the FFFBI.”
“No, no! She’s a miss, but she’s not that! She’s gone!” Susan!
Our office would advise a yak.
Aloutta Gentile Aloutta,
Step Dame Damer to Turk
I will pluck your feathers off.
Alarm spread the city. An APB for larks.
Your neck, your neck,
your back your wings
your feet.
Freezers were sought by mothers seeking Sue.
Pluck the feathers off your head,
The purveyors danced around.
Off your beak I pluck, yuk yuck.
Our city spread its wings.
Laughed wetly on its feet.
Weathermen puzzled in their shoes:
“What goes east west
north south
and never stays the same?”
Chickens at bus stops riddled:
“One, two, three, four
Who behind the white door?”
It was a wonder of a world that had a spa.
The upshot caused a fervor.
All day long they played:
the moon and the sun,
the stars in the sky,
know the reason why
in a town where I was born.
Folktales
I have done what anthropologists want, take the native as my own. So whether at bus stops or back fence where stories pass as found, admit it is too much to live the other way. Plain speaking without the fiction embarrasses the rest.
Away with Eskimo, Polynesian, Caribbean divines, myths carried all along. Excavate the Caucasoid within! You will find all primitive thought was lost except in the mind, in the forests of laundermats where homeless wandered with shopping carts while others fled the troglodytes of leather scute shells scupper who sought to eat and pretend it was an alternate universe, Folktales performed at banquets to large quantities of meat endanger kingdom of grocery.
The Emergence of Guapa Pop Publishing. Proceedings of the Mythogoma Society On Appetite. Mythogeme Publishing, 2008.
Guapa Pop proves how appetite unites people ill with disturbances in their dreams. An urban mythogeme, it explains also the growing rate of obesity. They were not obese from eating.
Guapa took psychologic methods to track the affects of dreamers consumed by oral urges. Teste Basketball and Disappearing to the Gigaconscious psychologize the hysteria as a bridge to psycho-sexual immaturity. The Phobias of Eggs turn out to be a large part of the mythogeme, lakes as eggs, oceans as eggs, or as we should say, dreams as eggs. This derangement of calories fueled by antagonistic drives and atomic sprees of eating proves that appetite is greater than Undustry.
A second premise is the way we talk about the problem or around it. Instead of saying simply that we ate, which is why the science of appetite in this book should be taken seriously, the appetitic drive substitutes other behaviors, as Haburger shows in his Diet of Regressive Pepsiogen Substitutes, biting, chewing, swallowing of food is oral erosis.
The sexual, social, psychological pattern of this erosis produces a fantasy impregnation by food, thus a psycho-sexual substitute pregnancy, viz. obesity. This desire of blind vegetative ravening sets The Table of Cause in Itself, progressing from gustatory consummations of food to Nutrition of the Unconscious and Increased Gastration Other ther nutritional abnormalities follow. There promise to be several more parts to this series.
Guapo, guapa, Damer, Turk, SueLit are mythogamas of publishing, that is, Guapa traces psychologic tracks of dreamers as a bridge to psycho-sexual immaturity. Phobias turn out to be a large part of the mythogeme, lakes as eggs, oceans as eggs, or as we should say, dream egg derangement fueled by atomic sprees of eating are oral erosis. The sexual, social, psychological pattern of this erosis impregnate food in a psycho-sexual substitute for pregnancy, viz. obesity and gustatory consummations. Other nutritional abnormalities promise to follow. There are several more parts to this series.
Bio. has written of Orcs, talking mules, wonk yaps, bicephalic imprints, Hanzel und Pretzel, metaversals, igods and Susans, as well as Damers brings surfactant packages to oil spills when droplet collisions coalesce to increase the natural dispersion of lumps when he is not conspiring future orbital missions to put in stable orbit around the Earth these pages embossed in asbestos. You can get him at Encouragementsforsuch as he is.
OK. I hadn't heard anything since Feb.
Comments about the story:
This is a true story. Dame and Susan came over when we moved in and sat on the berm. That was horrific. They had a basement in their adobe. I never met Turk, am not responsible for the binge eating they say began in 1990, a whole metaphysic of eating.
Added after proof of 7/28/12
Three Myths of the Signs of the Book
Eyewitness Accounts
The story came out but no participants were selected.
The story came out but none of the contenders were caught.
That left the goats.
They talked.
Three goats tied to the Damer’s Buick blabbed.
The biggest was a red ram who went abba daba dabaad on the bumper.
Damer also kept little dogs, but they only went abba, a Pomeranian, a Snoutzer and Pifawa paper back original.
I read them on the berm in the side of the yard.
These dogs were known to wag with love, which metaversal flesh consumes until you pop; then goats pee-opulate piles of debris.
It is one of the great sentence mysteries of the west.
We do not propose you ride it.
Just be warned.
Three Myths
Here’s how it went.
There were three myths who lived in a house in Dew Pit, a town with a spa and a delightsome mayor.
They were like three bears. Guapo Pop was the biggest, then came Step Dame, and then came Baby Lit.
Her name was Peggy Sue.
Each myth had a bowl of porridge that emitted strange gases.
They were quiet folk if you didn’t count the chickens or the gaseous emissions.
The belches made you think of the first sign of the book.
Now that is the ginger snap, the tawdry fact.
It is messy, at least it’s sticky, but we need to interpret.
Or not, you can take an application out.
To further our voyage to this land of cannibalists we have set parts of it to music.
Guapa Pop
Here’s how it goes.
The Dame was Guapa Pop.
Her daughter was Sue Lit.
Her husband weighed 800 pounds.
That was the second sign of the myth.
But the reader has Dame appetite. She is like a blog. Absorptive, consuming, hungry for love.
Turk the husband we call the intermediary, or to follow the motif, he was wait staff to the meal.
Susan of course was whole delight.
It trods the wire of half belief.
We are also write a book on pastry.
Big Und
Turk had retired from the Big Und. Which is Un-dustry spelled with a U.
I don’t know if it’s a sign. We say Ublishing.
There’s no delicate way to say that Turk made books.
Proverbial dismemberment put verbiage on Dame’s plate.
It poisoned her brain, the fab of the year, acclaimed an inchoate Melville, which was a defense when she ate Crane.
She ate ‘em all.
Now you done it, you heard the news?
An 800 pound man with a 600 pound daughter, who lived with that man’s second wife, was slaughtered and the remains were lardered.
Peggy Sue
Susan worked nights and came home in the day. She rented balls and shoes.
It was a form of bowling when her car vented blue.
Coming down the alley they swore it was a tornado but it was Sue.
Lei lines dove tug-faced in her head. She drove with a spare.
People on the verge of reading gathered each day to hear the news.
So what do you eat when you eat Sue Lit, broadside big as a ham, clerihews, anthologized stew?
This is a cure my friend.
Sure, drink milk in your poem.
Roast poem in your home.
But Sue Lit is a beauty cure.
What doesn’t Sue Lit cure?
She is that huge alone.
If we could just get a piece of the bone then the world would be one.
Where has she gone?
How was it done?
That’s what we’re here to show.
Once upon a time in a town with a gingerwood spa and a lightsome mayor named Arly the smoke poured from our Damer’s dread chimney.
That was the third sign of the book.
Did you know where the Turk had gone? Back to Und?
Where did he go?
He went up the chimney.
How are you feeling?
Results
Turk, that retired agent of Ublishing was a party poop, but he hadn’t lost his stuff, it squealed and squelched when he took off.
But when Turk went up it was a loss to Und and all little dogs who search for meaning as much as it was to the Ooks.
If you think there’s more to this you’re right.
(Sign! Sign!)
On the other hand, when Guapa Pop got fat (she is the Dame), that and the warning of her little goats was hard to take.
Eating Pop is messy.
Things wind up on the floor.
Little dogs eat the digestibles.
Then comes clean up.
Best pup poet gossip, hear, hear.
Once when small animals disappeared, Und made up a song, and it was into this song a guapa-ing, home from the leagues came Sue.
Then crowds gathered and traffic beeped for blocks.
It was no joke when Hotel Damer ate the Ooks.
And these are just the ordinary signs.
Women doing what men were doing all along, littering the purple plain.
That’s the excuse for eating Susan. Ooks!
Just pay the rent.
She ate him.
She ate her.
That’s it.
He was big.
Now he gone.
You want call Aesop?
“When she’s gone,
the moon and the sun,
the stars in the sky,
they know the reason
why she’s gone,
yes, when she’s gone.
Now she’s gone.”
Jack’s pickup. Guapa packed in white. Remember Susan of the day sneaked in the Westinghouse. Sneaked in Mom’s Westinghouse Susan stood the walk “they took your meat?” Yes sir my Susan’s gone. Open door of roaster, defroster freshened veal. Packed in white remember our city was alarmed. Packed in sacks of guapa lit I guess they syndicate, relay sacks to pickup, fence wholesale all the day. Yes sir my Susan’s gone.
Relay sack to pickup. Jet. Fence wholesale all the day. To grandma’s house we fridge! Bang! Susan in ice chest. Susan of a cloudy day! Sneaked in Mom’s Westinghouse.
Susan stood the walk, a dream.
Guapa.Packed white remember. Open door. Roast veil, defroster, veal. See dim. See quick. Fat sausage arm? Ham? Gorgon!
En passant.
The Mystery of Guapa Lit
In the deep freeze Guapa Lit made Damer call police. She let him in. The freezer was eight by ten. “They took your meat?” “My Susan’s gone.” Alarmed SueLitwas being farmed, parceled out in sacks, any came I guess to syndicate that body far, Wagons, trains backed alley to cold door! Freezer bright. No linger night. Up sausage. Down the hooks!
Purveyors joked widely on news shows in this town that never had a riddle, much less an en passant.
See chicken claws on hooks?
The purveyors thought it a joke, laughed widely on news shows in this town that never had a riddle, but it had a spa. We hesitate at dining en passant and I’d be for going out to file a missing person card.
Moms sought Susan with APBs
Room, room.
Quick hands roust packs. Poke closet, freezer entry
Sue lit packed in white
It was a white paper deed, Susan missing from the freeze. Damer called police and let him in. The freezer was eight by ten.. “They took your meat?” he said. “Yes sir, my Susan’s gone.” It was a dream.
Our city was alarmed that Susan was being farmed. Moms sought Susan with APBs. The purveyors thought it a joke, laughed widely on news shows in a town that never had a riddle, but it had a spa, but we hesitate dining out at en passant. I’d be for going out to file a missing person card.
Child at bus stops fiddled:“Who’s behind the white door?”While patrolmen filled out a card.
You wonder why peace broke out?
?
“Have you filed a missing person Ma’am? If you file a missing person we can give her to the FBI.” That Officer advised her of her rights.
Songs of the Blood-Brain Papers of OOk-Ork
You cannot mistake the OOk-Ork Planet of rotation. Bent to neither side for vertical retraction, OOk-Ork pops straight up, like a prairie dog in its burrow, then goes globular. That tongue replaced AngleFrank as OOk-Ork’s best weapon, a kind of mandibular debasement which affected danger, a kind of octopus with nether arms, tentacles all writing furiously, ink spurting everywhere. The irony to this was that the antidiuresis and reabsorption of the ink back into the terrestrial had the larger orifice. Pity the rejection that caused these opposites. Talk about open conflict in man!
Since the cartilaginous attachments of OOk-Ork were more complex than either amphibian from which it formed, tragedy impacted it at just such a time it was least able to sustain. Reptiles became turtles. Twenty two orders subsumed to four. A carapace surrounded the subdermal. But whether reptile or bird, OOk-Ork came from both, while its thispan ancestor argued a fusion of jaw and mandibular arch as a third.
This mandible of OOk-Ork stemmed from the cranium of its lower jaw, displaced in truth from the brain. Examples are not commonly encountered. The coarseness expressed in sibilants, the whole Hox code of OOk-Ork speech affected the upper lip. Pharyngula twists in private were timid, but OOk-Ork was a fearsome writer when anomaly impacted skull structures and jaw formation to divide. Humanity in two, OOk-Ork originated at dysfunction. Subdivision of oral apparatus into ‘oral’ and literal” dissociates at the skull base made it prone to exaggerate. Development of the orthognathous vs. prognathous jaw in all mammal-like reptiles was characteristic of its early relative, Morganucodon, the Lamprey.
Concepts of the Subfornical
If you open OOK-Ork up you find presumption of self within, an everglades of self exaltation drained until only here and there are ponds and mudholes.
Universalem
These challenges unbound metaphors of the possible. To have finally communicated to the Universal mind in a language only it could understand was the goal. Whether as a throwback to the primordial or looking forward to the millennial, OOk-Orc was the first to sing its songs.
Plumber
Their magno-cellular super-optic posteriors disputed whether subfornical organs were solely Orc. Considering the fluids in question one might call it the plumber of the body, an important function of the ventral brain. To cast its characters would require four letters, but who wants to read about rat slicing or SFO neurons? At the drawing board of creation the anti-diruretic enzyme labeled in a DNA counterpart was exalted or debased, depending on the fluid balance. Efferent projections of thirst stimulated drink. If that doesn’t pass the blood brain barrier what does?
Three
Signs of an Ook
1.
Once on a time
there were three big Ooks that lived in a house in Dubility. Turk Ook was the
father, Mama Ook was the mother, and SueLit Ook was the baby who looked like her
dad. Each Ook ate a bowl of sausage for breakfast. There were ginger snaps
stuck in the side. If you didn’t count the chickens or the occasional
gaseous emissions they were quiet ooks, excluding a belch, the first sign.
Mama belched to Turk about his 800 pounds. When he and Sue walked in the park
their footprints filled with water and drowned little dogs. She defended little
dogs, in the park to go PupPote, and the proverbial dismemberment Pups cause.
It was necessary for Mama’s plate, this eeing. Pups eat off Dame’s floor, which
is nothing to her since she eats what Ooks and Pups are slaughtered and served
up as remains. There are no special meanings to Remains, PupPote, Park, Ook,
etc. It’s a lot to feed an Ook to an Ook. Ooks are like big books. She was the
Ook of fame. Turk was feeding Sue to Dame! It boggles the mind that Turk the
publisher fed and then was ate.
2.
The second sign of the Ook is passionate
desire. Ma Ook, Dame Belcher or Guapa Pop, she has a lot of names, ate both
SueLit and her dad. He had retired from publishing by then to write a fairy
tale, an 800 pound Ook with a 600 pound Ooklet, Turk had married the Guapa Mama
for Ook amour, but she was his second Ook.
Were you Turk you longed to ook. Were you Dame you longed to ook, although the
sense is different, as in a pasty. Little dog PupPotes long to be best sellers
in Ook. In this rubble it wasn’t just breakfast they cooked, but lunch
beasties, Ham on Rye, and dinner with
TV and appliance. Modem in the left, forkem in the right, dinner was never so
ooked.
So whatdaya call it when you eat an Ook, broadside big as ham, clerihews,
anthologized stew? It’s all a cure what ails. Indigested? Drink milk in your
poem. Sleep deprived? Hunger? Roast PupPotem in your home. SueLit is a beauty
cure. What doesn’t Sue Ook cure? She’s that grape of the huge alone. Had you
the bone then the world would be one! One peace, one world, one home! Susan!
But where has she gone? That’s what we’re here to show.
The secret came out when a goat tied to Dame Ook’s bumper blabbed. Billy, with
his Nanny and their kid went abba daba dab on the bumper. The Dame kept
PupPotes too in the back seat. There were little Schnauzers, a Pomeranian, and
a Pifawa paperback. Never in the metaverse has this been solved.
3.
To sum up, Mama
Ook in a gingerbread house with smoke coming out the top fattened up Turk for
the kill. That smoke is the third sign
of Ook. When Turk went up it was as big a loss to little dogs as to big
Ooks, Turk being the source of all their food. Why would Dame fatten and kill
what made her live? On the other hand Mrs. Ook hungered. So if she erred it was
for PupPote.
In their warning about Ooks, Ookem,
the goats had said that these things were indigestible. Everyone knows now the
mess, the gravy, meat balls on the wall. The beauty of Ookistry is that these
tales about Turk and Sue Ook will bring them back.
Three Signs of the Book
The titular head of Pop, Madam Damer, has her step daughter in Lit. Nobody knows what happened to the real one. So much has been written about Madam Damer herself that the question is immaterial what that Voracious Dame read day by day, which means scroll, surf or bot. Call it sensation, or if you like, a desire to consume. By night she had a different appetite. There is some sense of contradiction between lit and pop,
They had lived in Galveston, Lake Havasu and Hoboken, as much drawn to water as we compare reading to eating continually. We even eat when we read, digesting psyche with zwitgeist Milk shakes, at least till the Dairy went dry. Pickles, as nasty as that seems. But no steamed lettuce or pork, that was dinner. Dinner Not Row Your Boat, but Lines roved Lei-faced in her head. It was not pretty.
Chanticleric melodies rooster crowed in bed at sunset. When her car vented blue, critics swore that it was a tornado, but it was SueLit. Big nose, fat rump, zits, a little frump? Sue Lit leads to escape. Civilization founded Lit! Sue Lit! Sut Lit, they call. It was always a question they asked after the cupboards, the niceness and the tea. And finally, how was it done? That’s what we’re here to show. But on the other hand if she didn’t, she would starve. It is counter intuitive. Things are simple and not. If this were a drama or a movie we’d wheel in a platter with writers, each one carrying a head. That doesn’t stop us from a meal. Where did he go? Turkeys can fly in the wild. Turk flew up a tree to roost. He went up the chimney all right. What does that tell you? Pass go. Got fat. Fat is maybe not a sufficient word. Consuming consumption until you pop, otherwise the economy does not go up and with it all of us.
This account is registered at the Great Society.
Probably you know by now her transportation venting blue. Critics swear it was a tornado, but it was Sue. Lei lines drove tug-faced on her head. People on the verge of reading hear the new expect.
So what do you eat when you eat Sue Lit, cuandero squash or ham, a broadside big, clerihews, anthologized stew? It a cure my friend. A cure for ail ya. Drink milk in a poem. Also a sleep aid. Roast poem in your home. Round the burners on a frosty night Sue Lit a beauty cure. Sue Lit escape. Civilization Sue! Sue Lit! They call. What doesn’t Sue Lit cure? She that huge alone, the grape. If we could just get a piece of the bone then the world would be one! One peace, one home. Where gone? That was what they asked when they couldn’t dream cupboards and ices and niceness. And finally, how done? That’s what we’re here to show.
Once on a time in a town with a spa and a delightsome mayor smoke came from Damer’s third chimney. The third sign of the book. Not the chimney! The smoke! Where oh where has the Turkey gone? She fattened him up on the run. Did you know Turk had gone? Why would she fatten and kill what made her live, but on the other if she didn’t she would starve. If this were a drama or a movie we’d wheel in a platter, each carry a head. Things cloy but don't stop. Go veg! Where did he go? Back to basic Turk. Can fly, know the wild. Turk flew up in the tree to roost. He went up the chimney he did. Ain’t you read? What that tell? Pass go.
TeaPartyTurk, M, Party Pooper, Big Und
Turkey retired from Big Un-dustry with a U. Don’t know if this a sign. We say Ublishing. Or unblishing, to the point. Too delicate to describe dismemberment of verbiage on Dame’s plate. Who to blame? Preverbs poisoned the brain, the flab of the year acclaimed inchoate, Melville eating Crane. She ate ‘em all. Now you done it you heard. Turk made books like he lived off Claribel. 800 pound man, 600 pound daughter, lived with second wife, stored remains.
Susan worked nights and came home in the day. She rented balls and shoes. Lit biz not all glam. Then came rubble, empties on roof, take out. Them weird eruptions in the tale they sat. Not just breakfast. Lunch was major. Ham on Rye, that read by schools. Milk shakes till the Dairy dry. Pickle nasty as before. No steamed lettuce or pork. Dinner? You want it all. Defer appetite, dinner coup de grace. Turn on TV, rap, appliance going, modem in left, fork in the right. Chang the ditties, Row Your Boat, not chanticleeric rooster crowing bed. Roosters crow at thereabouts.
Redacting Myth
Looked at another way, Turk was serving Sue to Pop, but Pop was Guap. Sue’s delight was every ones’. Were you a dog you longed. Were you Turk you served. Were you Dame you ate. Eat means read. Do not trod the half belief. This is a book about pastry. The same knowledge, people, came at the end of Rome.
Third Sign
That left the third sign, the goats who talked, Billy, two nannies and their kids, Kinder, Kendall and Don. They were yule goats tied to Damer’s Buick. The biggest blab was the ram who went abab blab adab on the bumper. Damer had little dogs too who spoke quatrains most. They went abad, a Pomeranian, a Snouzer and a Pifawa paper. To wag with love. We read them on the berm. Metaversal flesh consumes, you pop! Itself of one great mystery west we do propose, IT. Come over. This account registered with the Great Goat Soc.
Second Sign
The second sign came when none were caught. The titular head of Pop family, Step Dame, also called Damer, had a lot of names, Dame Belcher, Mother English, Guapa Pop. Her step daughter was Sue Lit. Where the real mom? Nobody knows and if they did you think they’d tell? We have suspicions. So much has been written of replacement Damer you do know who stepmother is. She the essence, quintessent pop, from fairy tale to Fess, which is what Damer belches in universal psych. Things not simp, grasshop. Damer belching Susan and Musselman Pop. If you’re not Pop, you’re not. The husband weighed 800 pounds, shared resemblance with Sue. You unnerstand semblance? Intuit when they walked the park, footprints drowned little dogs. What park! What dogs? The park laguna langua. Poets, little dogs. Nowadays that don’t mean much.
Damer belching is the second sign. Reader appetite, Dame Voracious read day and night. Read means eat. Read, Dame appetite. A nut you most desire. Appetite cracks nut. Or in common, consume, consume. Damer, therefore reader, ate Toot Suite and dad, publisher of World Books, retired to aulde syne.
First Sign
The first sign is none of participants were arrested, an honor of talk, not necessarily what we heard. Those at the top declare the gossip went like this: Once on a time there were three good myths that lived in a house in DewDip. Guapo Pop the fadder. Step Dame mudder was morpheous. Sue Lit baby looked like dad. That's the child version. Further discrimination follow.
Each myth ate porridge with ginger snaps at dawn. They were quick folk in the nook, even if they lived off Hoboke. It don’t count that the chickens or the occasional gaseous emissions roost in their beds. The belches included among the first signs of the book, as when buoys and tug boats echo by night. End the first day of myth. The End.
Three Big Ooks augmente
Three
Big Ooks
Once upon a time there were three big Ooks that lived in a house in Dubity
Book. Turk Ook were the fadder, Mama Ook was the mother, and Sue Ook was the
baby who looked like her dad. These Ooks were books for breakfast with ginger
snaps stuck in the side. If you didn’t count the chickens or the hideous
gaseous emissions they were quiet Ooks, the belch, the book and the sign.
Mama belched about the 800 pounds. When Turk and Sue were in the park their
footprints filled with water and drowned little dogs. Innocent dogs were in the
park to go PupPote. Mama defended PupPote, that is the proverbial dismemberment
Pups cause, even if she would squash a binding. It was necessary in Mama’s
state for reading. Pups read off Dame’s floor, which is nothing to her since
she eats all Ooks and Pups who are slaughtered and throws down the remains.
There are no special meanings. Remains,
PupPote, Park, Ook, etc. It’s a lot to feed an book to an Ook. Ooks are like
big books themselves. She herself was the Ook of fame. Turk was feeding Sue to
Dame! It boggles the mind that Turk the publisher fed and then was eaten.
The second sign of the Ook is passionate desire. Ma Ook, Dame Belcher or Guapa
Pop, she has a lot of names, ate both SueLit and her dad. He had retired from
publishing by then to write fairy tale, an 800 pound Ook with a 600 pound
Ooklet, Turk married the Guapa Mama for Ook amour. She was his second Ook.
Were you Turk you longed to ook. Were you Dame you longed to ook, although the
sense is different, as if a pasty. Little dog PupPotes long to be best sellers
in Ook. In this rubble it wasn’t just breakfast they cooked, but lunch pasties,
Ham on Rye, and
dinner with TV and appliance. Modem in the left, forkem in the right, dinner
was never so ooked.
So whatdaya eat when you eat an Ook, broadside big as ham, clerihews,
anthologized stew? It’s all a cure what ails. Indigest? Drink milk in your
poem. Sleep aid? Hunger? Roast PupPotem in your home. SueLit is a beauty cure.
What doesn’t Sue Ook cure? She’s that grape of the huge alone. Had you the bone
then the world would be one! One peace, one world, one home! Susan! But where
has she gone? That’s what we’re here to show.
2.
The secret came out when a goat tied to Dame Ook’s bumper blabbed. Billy, with
his Nanny and their kid went abba daba dab on the bumper. The Dame kept
PupPotes too in the back seat. There were little Schnauzers, a Pomeranian, and
a Pifawa paperback. Never in the metaverse has this been solved.
To sum up, Mama Ook in a gingerbread house with smoke coming out the top
fattened up Turk for the kill. That smoke is the third sign of Ook. When Turk
went up it was as big a loss to little dogs as to big Ooks, Turk being the
source of all their food. Why would Dame fatten and kill what made her live? On
the other hand Mrs. Ook hungered. So she ate some PupPote.
In their warning about Ooks, Ookem!, the goats had said that these things
were indigestible. Everyone knows now the mess, the gravy, meat balls on the
wall. The beauty of Ookistry is that these tales about Turk and Sue Ook will
bring them back.
Once on a time there were three big Ooks. They lived in a house in Dubity Dip. Turk Big Ook was the father, Guapa Big Ook was the mother, and Sue Ook was the baby. She looked like her dad. Each Ook ate a bowl of porridge for breakfast with ginger snaps in the side. If you don’t count the chickens or the gaseous emissions they were quiet Ooks around the nook. The belches excluded. They are the first sign of Ook.
The second sign is Ma Dame, Dame Belch. She has a lot of names. Whoever ate Sue Ook and the dad, who published Ooks on the side but tired from this aulde syne in the tale, should know that even in fairy it’s a lot to feed Ook to Sue when you’re really feeding Sue to Ook. It made Dame jealous. She was the Ook who wanted it all.
Were you a little dog best seller you longed for an Ook. Were you Turk you longed to give it. Were you Dame you longed to eat it, as if Ook were a pasty.
Damer belched a lot to Turk. The big Ook weighed over 800 pounds. When he and Sue walked in the park their feet foundered the water and drowned little dogs. This park is the place where little dogs go to PupPote.
There’s no delicate way to say it. In defense of PupPote the proverbial dismemberment on Damer’s plate is called Eeing. Dame ate ‘em all. When Turk retired from Und Ublishing, an 800 pound Ook with a 600 pound Ooklet, he married for Ook amour. Dame was that man’s second Ook. She slaughtered him and served up the remains.
Behind the rubble it wasn’t just breakfast in the tale, but lunch pasties of Ham on Rye in the high schools, dinner with TV and appliance. Modem in the left, fork in the right, dinner was always Ooked.
So whatdaya eat when you eat an Ook, broadside big as a ham, clerihews, anthologized stew? It’s a cure what ails. Indigest? Drink milk in your potem. Sleep aid? Hunger? Roast pote in your home. Sue Ook is a beauty cure. What doesn’t Ook cure? She’s a grape of the huge alone. Get a piece of the bone and the world will be one! One peace, one world, one home! Ookem! But where has she gone? That’s what we’re here to show.
The secret came out when a goat attached to Dame Ooker’s bumper blabbed. Billy, Nanny and their kid tied to the Buick went abba daba dab on the bumper. Dame also had Ooks in the back, in quatrains, a Pomeranian, a Snoozer and a Pifawa paper. This was until the metaverse came which we must all solve.
So once upon a time an Ook of gingerbread and delightsome mayors, with smoke coming out the chimney, fattened up Turk for the kill. That smoke is the third sign of Ook. Why would Dame fatten and kill what made her live?
But when Turk went up it was a big loss to little dogs and to Ooks. What’s an Ook? I’m going to tell. On the other hand, Damer, who is Guapa Ook, was still hungry. So she ate some PupPote.
In warning about Ooks the goats said that such things are indigestible. Everyone says that now, with the mess, the gravy, meat balls on the wall, babies screaming.
Songs ublished in an Ook about Sue and Turk brought them back. That’s the beauty of Ookistry. It’s no joke Hotel Damer ate the Ooks. Women were finally doing what men had done.
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