Category Archives: nib the ink runs through.

…TUNAFISH…

[Response to: From time to time…]

bzzzzz: Radio Aruba, Jamaica ooo I wanna take ya Bermuda, Bahama come on pretty mama Key Largo

Shelly’s beach adventures were manifesting into the dreams of hermit crabs. The unbearable heat stroke she had acquired on a day to day basis had slowly transformed her brain, or perhaps it was the peyote that she had sprinkled in her coffee that fateful october morning.

Shelly sweltered out on the beach, until her body mutated into a beached manatee. Lucky for her the tide came in 17 minutes and 34 seconds later.

The feeling of being brought back to the water, reminded Shelly of birth, or what her imagination of birth could conjure up through her peyote heat stroke infused manatee mind. Shelly was always more of a worker bee. She wondered if being a manatee would bring further insanity, for what is a life floating in water all day.

If she had only purchased that Ipod nano 3 years earlier then she would at least be able to float around to music, but alas, it was not in the cards.

BLUE

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…WELL-UNDERSTOOD RISKS OF SENTIMENTAL NOSTALGIA…

[Response to To be as a free city]


…OUR WEIGHT GROWN SERE AND DREARY…

[response to Dear _____,]

Never aficionary, but covertly becustomed to the life epistocratic they are. Sleuthish, perpetually sniffing out paths of inkblood through abandoned Rolodex cavities and forsaken desk drawers. I hang back, but observe much.

Breath of mine has fogged aurorally their magnificentifying glasses and pressed windows of finger tipholes into the fortresses betwixt their eyes, evermore and anon. Looking on with mouth agape as they shuffle the evidence and chuckle with a knowing vulgar and chew their mustaches and always, but always, advise sewage.

Gorlov’em! Ears anew won, hot on the trail of another letterous offender:

Hem. Peers plain to be distortion, straight and forward. Of a stinkly sek-shell nature, and valvular in the ex-spleen. Some wordsongs in the early. (Use of the first plurality; a lobberill be needed to make that sing.) Ference to some foreign locals. Was sicksome geezer, righton. Peers to have troublously countered this horsepack amok, but couldn’t counter’em righton a tall a tall; couldn’t even counter how many were there. Shouldn’ta been packing horses in the placefirst. Out of stable, out of time, out of mind, mimem alluz zed, half hearse she was so shotta know. Har-roum! Back to disseer epistocrantz, a real minimal element. Ladderly seems to have been an upbreak, parts askeweredly, bedazed and berusting. Clarishly, he wants some up and look on the low and down, a bitto spanky-shank without any crink for crank, some jamjoy but no alloy. Lisp my reads: pastiche? We’ll bring this swipe-ass down.


…SHE DOESN’T FOLLOW HER OWN ANESTHETIC…

[Response to “I pressed my face between the bars in order to be closer to the darkness.”]

Cheap pens

Then I looked down and my pen was leaking. It was one of his, the kind that would leak also in his pocket. This is when I knew I had eyes. When I dig in my purse I can tell which pens had been mine. I can tell his were largely better but I don’t feel as though I’ve kept anything for myself. [CP, 1]

It’s an eye for detail, I suppose, like a fox’s for being completely inside of a space. Like a Poe physiognomist, the detective with collecting eyes and an insistence on the privacy of the already-purchased. A Louis-Philippe interior. Or is it that I worked so completely inside of everything that it’s difficult to take a break now: Offenbach, iron girders, submersion, the concentration of the animal, what have you. Nothing ever soluble but like a sore thumb. All I knew was a series of machine-carved sofas and windows draped just so the light barely entered. Like a puncture. Haussman’s streets were made to stay open. It’s the people on the barricades who you can’t hold to anything. [CP, 2]

The bleeding pen is a great tool for keeping hold of things, someone says sarcastically. With it I keep the light in line, as I keep the lecture. In June I couldn’t stand feeling like I was all open and in somebody else’s battle-scene panorama. This is when I knew I would cut off all my hair. [CP, 3]

In the popular images printed at the time their threads were often threadbare but their headdresses were combinations of fair and fowl. Then he wrote an ancient anthropology of consumption. The new space could insure nicer weather and so it was phenomenological. In fact people tended toward loving interiors although the streets were still down for misunderstandings. When they rode the first trains their hair prickled all over their arms and they dropped stockings out of the windows. [CP, 4]

I’m having a minor moment regarding midnight but nothing that won’t resolve through substance. I read prefaces and go from book to book. I worry about a certain meteorological resemblance. I think about a friend who lives very far. I threw the pen out earlier. It had given up on my commentary. [CP, 5]


…CONNECTICUT AUTUMN’S EXCREMENT, YEAR AFTER YEAR…

[response to “For the rest they drew water…”]

She bit into a painted brioche, bent over a
zine and underlined her way through a whole block of words, brioche
snowing like a fat
winter.  God, she thought, brushing at the weather.  Be a lady for
once.

The ink line wobbled on the page and she
stripped it off and tied it in a bow.  Then she popped it in her mouth
and let it sit under her tongue.  If only words tasted like my
underline, she thought.

She was big and pink and raw and she
snipped the paper.  Hungry.  Pretty soon she wore a spread on her
middle, headers dangling
off like pills on a sweater.

[read the response: “In one encyclopedia nothing raw…”]