Tuesday, March 26, 2013

Image With Rainbowhands. 2013.




With false hands of cherootish 
pastilles hanging from his 
sleeve-ends as penumbral bushukans, 
he went off to trump their brash 
hogshead tabours with disturbing 
finger beards of compressed colours, 
as likely to draw as to smoke, but, 
intuiting the marred jury, that 
pearl of injured spa-goers pressed 
lately into that form from their 
visit to the grand and spherical 
Cénotaphe à Newton that inexplicably 
E.L. Boullée could only build in Baden-
Baden, he brought along his water-flute
in the form of a transparent gavel,
which like a glabrous bell could be attached
to anything in the most egregious manner,
for this was a spa-gavel whose hist of est
was as superfluous and perilous as the
mannikin brides of Oldenburg which
hovered in their rampant millions in the
gavel-timber surrounding the grand and
spherical Cénotaphe, along the crooked
head-trough of Mowry, in which the horsey
model of Old Blind English Spa conjoined
to the gauzy underwings of whatever it was
went on, and on, and on, and und so wreiter.