My Weary Fulmination

I don’t mince words. I defend them with hysteria, my subscription to Hustler and a phosphorescence of Etruscan dots. I think of a tin kiss prolonging a structure of hamburger and realize that the scenery surrounding my life is slightly dodecaphonic, but otherwise sound as a discombobulation of cowboys in a Freudian discotheque. It is within the confines of our refrigerator that I draw true inspiration: infrared pickles and the curly drawing of a gallon of cross-eyed skim milk reposing in golden photoconductivity. The ice cubes are reveries of water and the cheese is totally retrospective.

I can’t wait to squeeze the grandeur of a lost opportunity. I will not use my sense of nothingness as an excuse. Buckle up, dude, we’re going places.

The vermilion altitude of my favorite tie interprets reality differently than I do. But I like to wear it anyway. It confers a certain authority on my chest that would otherwise be wasted on buttons. What do you think of those glasses and jars in Cézanne’s still lifes? I think they’re mighty with simultaneousness.

Today I got a job consolidating blisters in a pencil factory. But then I quit. I lasted ten minutes. Enough for a career, but not enough for a decent paycheck. Consequently, I had to take up boxing. I didn’t last very long at that either. I got a few punches in before the mattress collapsed to the floor.

Surrealism is my game, baby, but blossoming is my prerogative. Growling is an innocent luxury. And so I growl. GRRRRRR!!!

Suppose a funny indentation reached for a rattlesnake and lactated forty pounds of Chicago? Would you cry? Would you spit? Would you construct a simulacrum of life in an igloo? That’s what I did. And I managed to avoid Chicago completely.

A bunch of sunlight fell on my head while I was waiting to rent a furnished itch. My weary fulmination deepened into an amoebic decorum and I lost my head completely while tilting a subjective tortilla at a quixotic lump of sugar on a Platonic spoon. This is how to get tangled up in adjectives, my friend. My advice is to stay as close as you can to the coast of Greenland and then expand yourself into a relentless, hedonistic ball of fire.

Once you get your personality going you can always go to Montmartre. If you require the services of a subversive giant to bring you to the top you might want to bring a little extra cash. But make sure the giant is truly subversive and not just spilling his guts into a glass of wine.

Some days all I want to do is write poetry and get sexual with a planet. I’m aroused by orbits. I feel all the reticence of a peptic misanthrope but none of the adhesion. This is why I have trouble with bedsprings.

I wish I had never left California. I could’ve been a fingernail. Severity is so gaudy. The paint hangs from the painting ambushing a seashore and I have to wonder why I came to this motel in the first place. And then I remember: I became a conceit for shaving lather and dried my face with a car axle. I won’t do that again. Next time I’ll use a dishwasher.