Monday, November 23, 2009
Dearest Giddy Sludge and Heath. A requiem for some tazers in your deep deep pockets! A challenge to pry your rapier botox flectum, a marriage disparage of yours and mine uncouth and accoutrement meister breem! We'll bite the bit together, say you! tell the old mare to ride whoa-brides and bridle their own paps of wrapped-snappy hosiery, dragoons and goonkids all the ilk, dispensing with armageddon hops and chortles under skirts while we waste waylays and layline bearings at their (or his-her) most-glowing loaved child-at-work, tiding tweed tediums with flavor slacks, rectangle basters, low lying glowing frustrated pics of desnudes lusion hall lexicon local one eighties. Men of dumps and ladles of rote, girlish nides and well-do-over lapsing forebear after-cues, sissel-bound in copperish veneer rinses, the old blames and craned necks (portals approximax; apropos to pennies-on-tandemnic zaire); man the screams: Sand! Heft! Left over to rasp the grape-ish moon, manned over left king total tease kaas and caesar creases, returning to test the rotunda meme: Choll! Keifer! Wrent hisses and pie piss plenties, winces and wendies and will-do-me's and won'tcha gotcha can-can pee and ply in red tasted kneeds, wellspring hoff and planted plier joles and bowels jeering creoles and protestant proto-serum simplish plump. My merry Dear Giddy. Today we revolt and rescind. Tomorrow, we'll dine in fresh fresco, papel tare weights and shaman baubles babel wing proot. Let the dust settle. Let the nettles birches beast friezes and lope their own dires with chiaroscuros wrosted with welp wrestling tamper tads of gone-gropie billfold foak nodes. Damn them to hects, the lot! Make babes from brim and tease the tassels with well wrought hue! Jove, his jib was merry, like yours, hers, and my deepest deepling respite. We'll task together, friend. Task together with lists, and the following: astute fixes & nonpodium modems; capillary resistors, failed aquatics, motions (self-propelled) immulsionsings; red tore rick ranger fox bau / lowly chant - ted - maria de la suerte and galopagolineated frosted mini heaves chance candor knuckle pearls; drawing contested two standing molehill mounts. Carptonic (rest, e-z) the rest would be a solace easy ... stretch... (!) act normal; type numbers, appear pre-occu-pied (slowly cut and roll more balls) parting article rash and sedentary brain crush sensation prawn, his nibs veazie was a pie-eating scrub of a brown heck; glad shoes, hairy car, red phone, corduroy smile from ear to ear and by the by and tubs all chiming for brine hugs and summer anthem AND very good coffee. Name it! Belies & B'liars & truthscolds and soothe told tooth solds and redries and render-rings and shit man, it was a bad day (month) for "art" (stocks were traded in for the public-humiliation-wooden-type)."I used to have a stable hand for these jobs, now I haven't even a stable. Boy... " Muses rendered as euphemisms, snow's back and treated as another month of marble. The scope of things-to-come? Old trucker weres his wolfing (Mother, Katrina) as a crown of now briar and ancient pederast (crossing streets for jung'ers); I'm stuck just drawing and linguistically confusing raw renders as rear-enders as an ongoing dialogue... while others call for "magic". Things sound good in rope: multiwrapped textures now aren't that extreme are they, my man? Something in the box was a hoax. Pen ultimate enthroned pander wear & coochy or loo gurgle (barbel) with hot-doink actionswear and tediumpants enshrined by limply-toothed esquire tarts and their sudden pages allah toehead splendour, cottling up to throttle each wyoming senator with missed lucy grins and purple tares for lessonstares & feisty waits statedly deported & condemnmentalized a priori (leslie, leslie); much ado about corduroys and flecks (nary on the wane) of hectum, wrenches & palms, good sentences, island pulls, and oil spots under arms and paramours or troopers touping H-Ron lubbard tumber yack/'ard a' nor'westerly Cho' da (al D.C. return spin) "we're not going to argue about this" Mothers would repeat, too. Blit's balks; hoary pocks--oh those clooney eyes and marriage hand contraband... trash refuse pile squeeze umbilical stretch roster titty hanging dangle dare to insinuate more lush triangles (mental processing gets faster without masturbation) into the tune of greymatter/hot/madder rectified and rechanneled into on lyres onto undo lean-to's with nary a hairy eyeball doing the finger pinch and pucker. Romp with guile, rule with chin... the smattering of floor paper remnants as indicator of travels, new friends, and the changing seas. Huts and paws as the together-knits and offering good cordials in the evening way-seeds and lately swept-hind fogs (rescue grouse and slow roads homeword hubris/umbrage regrettor stymied); written oft chins, lessly takes and the sprine stay-lones with good-gaums and tendrist gaumy lads lowing (you gotta love the two armed ripes!)... on hypersped and pee'd uncles, the good royal geodes crack the whim and splay latent portents to the spread easy of him-magii/nary the rustic estrus prayer and lovely houlten preeners of bed & beaded partly sunny hermano handle-man muñeca tapered lapsing landowner filch balk blit's and good hoe with moe and money lending and marry the damn couplink: it's a xerox'd champagne! Only something'll something; shh, it's another winsome passing... stop up your eyes and keep the channel markers steady brine. A forty ton bag of flowers, blown red when the twister hits; pink or lilac or azure nodes nodding hex good egret dried bank & don't you have some job to go to and what's this story you keep not wanting to get down with and when are you going to get down with down with get down and sshhh the cherry or at least have some regular sleepin' paddles, padded with feather tough urns or turning a' gawkin' and ready for chin-up solders. Don't even think I'll bathe, man. Don't even. Wondering in a fog or wandering in a thought. ps: did we tell you about the man who lived all alone? Or simply... news, no news. Only cows. Bad ones at that. Televised, angry, syrupy; cradled in jade, even. But no news. Please, no news. The mewling of personal stature, the requisite for journal logging, the fallacious facade of double id's and ism--persimmon flavored conjectures that hide the reek of tangible ape sweat and sweetheart idiom gone wrongful duty lawyer lame-horse antebellum. Antecedents and gracious lisps, tongue tithes and loose canon; shriveled pie-eyed or weasel ears quick to chanter, yep... it's all in the dung, aqua, and red streak. None of that, we'll have, the superlative we, the triumphalist creed, lawns left to weeds while the milk-wars and wares clanging, due processions (confess to likening 'em to parades), preceded programming losses and yesterday's twine pants and looms of guilt aquifers, sentinels on cherished rotation, horns brassing out same tangent spellbound book bindings and bed livers and head sores and red drivers and teat gloves and papal tatters and taste defiers and sedge loaners and stretch Reichian potato muffin pillow bitten heath divers and nomination drives and kind old ladies and unseated emperors and abdicated drones and teutonic nightingale worship astringents and agencies that continue to tell you what you don't need. We'll have them, sand and heft, but read me no more times less clearly with muddied eyelets citing pleases and thankful greases and prayer hugs dallied with chime and reason rhyme teethes... I'll do the banking. Yes. Undoing dine. This combo sheik will unedits paper rind and glum acre with lake taps and raspberry chokes on seeds tempered in over mown parks with winks and whispers and islets proudly circled by chop chops and soda purples, sewn with the dance of swallows. Sit down, warm your seat a thousand times; reduce: spools to spins, intimate twirls, double spoken laundry poems and swoops to incline cheekbone musculature to raise upward; still adaptive pants: bear in mind... double realisms and watch for sunsets; one arm sports a semicolon, one arms sports a hand drawn hu; envision firehose art for sure (but a garden hose will do in a pinch). It's 1952. Or something. I'd never had been there hadn't there nor nary never be been there you see -- it was a book. Sometimes I CAN read, or wake up with horrifyingly pronounced erections like I was seventeen. Making it 1931. IF yesterday you revisited gold bullion, today we continue to revisit just about the (canonical) point (ed. head) of last year. Which would make most things seem like yesterday... caked in the Mother's clay of reticent calms and an oil smudge. Or two. Do that plural, my good Giddy, and cheers to our nape!
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Subject: a point well made is often round yet the more interesting point seem to be urgular.
hello there mr crank sir,
it was a scoobyblooby pleasure to find your très exquisitely crafted piece of flotsam and jetsam in the mail this week, after a hauntiful bout with a strangleful feverpitched virus that felt descriminated against in this fluhumbuggy times and held me aloft a fire of my own for three days taken all the liquids, but no sympathy needed as i am recovered yes even reapolstered. back to your wraptrapzi it took some careful chirurgical operations to avoid the tripwires and binkybonkytraps to coerce its innards to diplay their stufflike appearances. every item by its proces of inclusion suddenly a postmodern artefact. yes i am to call you a postmodernartefactian by the bristethernian council of smülle. i am listening to a piece of the alien junquette's entrailic circular expanses as i type, it's on a boat you are not alone there is some talk of trumpette or some trump of talquette, one wonders, two wonders for certain.
i hope to reciprocate with a spawny blob of my own come the new decennium.
yours in bibiganbooboo,
(eyes used for tooth support)
Friday, November 20, 2009
It seems as though we're not going to be traveling for a bit-- Jay, Muñeca, and me ol' fishy lot. November does its landing, buttering us up for a winter of buffering the nor'east blows and so (and so), thus this little side lot blogger- splotch of wayward ways and ramblings has created its own emergence. I don't reckon the Solhushfandango blog will be put out of commission-- it was and is still a remarkable journal of three peeps communicating their insights from beyound the thousand mile marker-- I'm just needing to peck rambles in the quick tasty testifying manner, and felt solo bleeps would be more appropriate to gum forth. Plus, it's like this: I mutter a lot. Get snared up/glued down in my studio here in the barn at Big Boy Farm. And all-the-while, unabashedly take snaps that accompany thoughts in their hangars caught in mid-flight. Got me?
Just the fish this time, this one.
See what nonsense I can muster with baited breasts and cherry lingo and senile verility.
See what tippy taps can accompany the process of being in one place, yes--- yet one place hopefully mobile.
(eyes used for tooth support)
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
(eyes used for tooth support)
It was a very funny set design. Clog said, "let's do fences" and I agreed: fences make for easy theatre. Condition? We get naked. SO the three of us did-- Gaylord showing up with his munchy floor guitar to add to the program. "Dude, you been working out?" Clog asked. Ed and Randy and Id would peek their heads around the fence and gasp giddy beeps of laughter: three naked middle-aged guys with instruments. Behind a fence. Playing noises with each curtain draw; performing sounds for John's paintings that would go up with each open-and-close. Could you see it? The fence would act as, well, a fence. Sometimes some ball bounce would get a peep or a slatted sidelong wink, though. I jumped a bit, too: first time for everything-- naked, no, but naked with the whole entourage? Yes. A yes Anti-Friend Hut. Curtains and clapping.