Friday, March 11, 2011

Tremendous Progress. I Was Ordered To Kill You.

"Father takes a plane on credit card with medical telephone." Hmm. Seems like she hasn't visited Highland Park, or Preston Hollow much. I've seen red blood cells made into hovercraft and raced along sweeping angular causeways to the sea, Modernism's eternal symbol is the parabola, a thing which could be found crookedly joined to a robin's nest by careful investigation, eyes, like bloodcells, photons like hovercraft, content with their feet of clay. Next we try Vienna.

I'm sorry what happened to you there. Were you once a whore, or fire? I could have laughed ten more centuries but I died of stupidity as a garden overgrown with whistling, and creamy green eggs shaded by music wrought into iron, and there was no pity but space's own hush, the blind's own love of darkness, the old, their cast-off pretensions to be anything other than a candle of huddling. We met once, where the gray tenements collide with anything chromatic other than your self, or mine, its wincing call to the police amidst the gargantuan salad. I see werewolf spider bones in its immense salad. I see the police chief shed a tear like a leather lychee, its dark gumball of inkshoes inside, and how hovering cubes of paper and bamboo shoji must be journalisms, the yellow lamp-lore imperiality of subjectivity is all that consciousness can muster within the worn canvas spelk and crèche of matted brain-light that is our old home chicken street...

It's better if we lay out these creaturized languors in the open where they can breath and gather moss, moss makes a campion's fire ever so supple when the marsh comes slipped in a purse for the  time being. If one angel says to another, "angel", you can be sure. Chicken street is where they roost, for the angels in Chicken street wear no pants, and their long purple legs come tangled up with the cannel-bones of tangrid magels, the street itself is shaped like a hollow shell, and comes out its own end crowing for the tesseral endings of things, but most things here are like meteors of chickens.

You've got to speak louder if you want to be heard! A green seven is similarly literal, but the green glass flashing fork as it passes beneath emptiness' wan blue upturned nipple is not, we have several instruments on board, and each of them begin with a Bonaparte, and zusammen or similar familiar from a zoo. Black iron fists with black iron binoculars have their own leather case, but are quite useless to a blind angel from light. Let's say the afterlife was the world I came from, which in this case is the before-life, or other-life that never was, I was set down in here to question all the crossroads of time, to leer and make fun of them as one makes a 7 at an X like one makes a tongue at a blind woman to test if she sees. These stranglers in Chicken street carry invisible garrottes, invisible as they look like ducks whose bills have turned around inside the air to sing. Their hollow cannel-bones seem without origin as they sing. These garrottes are ducks which like musical instruments carry their skeletons on the outside through which they see. I was so sorry to be a credit to your race, I could have been a debit, but then you would have had to duck, and bow out through the garrets of Hinkel Strasse, the place where blackmail is borne, and gall light.

"Don't underestimate Mr. Spring at any time."

"You be the brawn, and I'll be the brains." You be the oboe with milky green nipples, and I'll be the feathered telephone burglar. It's an island. A Summerplace. It's all blackmail.