a third rate, fourth place, tenuous at best, unabridged yet oft-truncated collection of calumny & travails from the last manfish standing, husophonic orator & chronic fumbler, his nipples (minus 3), Crank Sturgeon
Few few fellows had their chair merchants up and running. All said, a vague burning smell would permeate, but then you'd forgotten it was the middle of the month, and for once the smell couldn't be blamed on electronics. It'd come as a closure, a sense of wellness, or a peevish player mechanism, latent on one hand, but terribly impatient to rut like an elk on the other. Lists would resume: stunning lips and eggs and these here things meant-to-be-potable or pro or portraying the ovum of jaundices prejudiced into slim quivers for a wrap around reach and bury the bolt deep long into sides where ribs trickled and timed to various keys, well, that was an overture to taste! I'd keep on clapping. Seemed there were many of these timings; places where I'd put a few too many hand slaps into a dentine rotation to "call good" the gods of entry reentry and capable correspondent. A soapy film would encrust, at least over time, appearing in that musty hummus colored ring around pools, ankles, and places just aching of leagues' bile and vice grope further aspects of spine and grave. Daily, man. The trust was a penny, letting loose like a midnight tryst and fable. Olden mires, maybe a lady you'd had the pleasure of lipping the wildest curves and hopes to awaken from the figs and mangroves like some other than the hilt of pikes jousting paranormals and emeralds and bad novels kept at the waist. A ship to shire and shield from the next abatement of incomings and eyebrows, those warmths, akin to odors used in letters or alongside soiled batches of clear transparency and acetate methodology, she would bounce the layover for days, and my overlay was entering a loop phase, third moon anecdotal, tongued to a shiver of zinc and the slightest whisp of chewed-off foil.
This is a snap taken of a Crank version / performance of Matt Taggart's spit action out in Holyoke, Mass at the Abortus Fever artist salon. The grain says it all: a hush of orange red space, smattering of concrete walls & creaky wood floors, and attempting to fill a cup with spit by biting my tongue and horking loogies every thirty seconds (into said cup) while a tape loop played back a yell "OH!". Photo by Chris Blair.
Suggest for once that you don't like some variance of thing or one. Holding to this claim, write it on a part of the body that sees a lot of use; be absolute! resolute! and g/low/oat! Standard bliss applies. Notate and rescind, retorts if need be (stamps and otherwise), shopping a few bits and biting letters to undeserving public servants just to see if there's an any one/two/thrice thresh holding bay bin to bundle up that two-four applicable rate clamor and rational varied conclusives. The body usually holds on/u/to/ton/tessy at this point of the headstrong issue. You have to be very, very point/ed head/way/ger(m here to not stray or dather in the concepts of seething renders and/or you-know (highway on the hog)(beset with nipples)... I mean, damn, it'd be worse than a weekend in the v and t (a under v) directional. People (I find) do love to stare. Services under the auspices of suspect derision and cloaked in tiny sleeves of such arrays (you/can/see/'em/along/th'/interstate/at/certain/speeds); this decision is usually met with stakes on the other parts if to-be-kind, were meant well-meaning to suggest an infer/tent content retaining fee/thrice(usually/cheering(watch-the-breasts-bounce-and-choose-hair-victims-say it:"((((((((((((((". and assemblies went ass over end ensembles just to rake up a few IP addresses in order to continue liking certain colors chosen from early age, maybe childhood wallpaper nursery hindquarter slims, and pops/ohms 'oms and poems, well? Wellwellwell. A stickler for a retreat, fellow. Do this, though: if you can, stay stable.