I’m awake now. Bordering Borderline walkie personality I trace Whippets and designer clops into stern cemeteries, rule for what clues cities glue crystals to co-sign banker’s geysers in all do-gooder refurbished foyers as STAGED geysers, and react thusly: hoolay. I am articulate, I am unashamed, I call Agent D into pure document cure-breakfast maelstrom, we buy tortes, tourettes, tourist tanktops, with hairpieces to go, we buy miniature elf-sharpeners, barnacles, curvy mirrors, curvy elfbones, bespoke poke-sticks, and basically bake it down to cultural swirl-off, you’ll like it, Diane, I do. I expressed this.
Recipe for cultural swirl-off:
Tortes, tourettes, tourist tanktops, with hairpieces to go, miniature elf-sharpeners, barnacles, curvy mirrors, curvy elfbones,
bespoke poke-sticks
Basically bake it down to cultural swirl-off.
You’ll like it, Diane... I do...
I expressed this. . .
For the first time, I see. At least the way rings see, on teleprompters through the screen, eraser, manual dog wanna-bes restart sequences of prophecy, foreplay, and give the impression I actually give a tucked shirtwaist for them, the little higher rakes... Piss piss. Do you transcribe chiffon if your hairpiece
sires a shank? What we need, what we desperately need in contrast to corporeality foreplay is shapes, cut-outs, projectors!, photocopiers!, photo-re-als!, snippers, photo-shanks!, lightbulbs, and chip-clips. Kinky-agents, de-vase. You know you’re chippy when a wilted ass solves and proves an abstract equation, disgusting. A mailroom-disgust.
(Opening the letter, notes fall awkwardly on my two-piece hipline hat, into the catch flap, where they shrivel themselves down into babies awkwardly blubbering, making simple sentences, I defer to trance, to that sustenance curiosity in terse organic laces, it unfolds. “Avenue...perm flicker horses prepare open access throats... Mecklenburg-Vorpommern denies perm and porcelain pages or any attachment style.”)
Glug, glug, said the sewer-tube. I love this, showering in city’s quicksand while the lube’s still drying--
I am on the boat, I breathe. Wind-weathered barnacles, de-louse the cases swank on display, in coral sheets, believe the bleeps and sheepish orbits that I purchase without perceiving, even Barcloon S’s brim is freaking traits, sandwiched between pink alphabet poodles, purple washing machines, puke, plates. I hop-toward. Deigning stirs my worst hobby-horse, The Demote Van Ston Bleekman, forward, Demote Stan Von Bleekman, shop on Anemone Lane.
I bought The Demote Stan Von Bleekman ten years ago, in between Mission F and Mission E. He was the seventeenth rebranded Cabbage, canned from purgatory, known only to gods and mortals as “Christian.” I carried The DSVB, small, inside casements, sausage-like, all the way bouncy paces through Potawatami Zoo, stopping only with firm organs where bandits reached round the ankles of frappés held in hands thickly curious about
nothing, just opening lids. I was praying the whole time. He cried very little, inbetween periods of adolescence, wherein I wiggled him sweetly through my mohair stocking, passed a checkpoint and broiled whomever de-jeweled Stan’s fiancee, Ferlice! Those lighter-daisies did me first, back at P-Zoo, 12 noon, back when adjustments were still nice.
Newspaper Article: Lightbeing Mirtha Dissapeared
Here lies another lightbeing, blister-daughter Mirtha, sun folded in soon, curt passing. So she is positioned dead, prior only radioactive E, so sisterly. Whosoever knows any murderettes, tourniquettes, straitjacket-style, should dial the same number every phonebook prints on diner style, checker-booked, matchbook placement dinner map, should flip it then blink-control-eject the image. Lightbeing, Relinquish! Here :
Fill out ____________Tip:________________________________________________
____________Lightbeing Expectant:___________________________________________________
Flip// Book// Page// Sink//
.
.
.
I’m a dandy to public life. In across wharf waifs dance about, the sun worshippers, little bastards, tilting kerchiefs toward their face, their eyelets, smizing, occasionally flipping their kamikaze hair into my direction, as if I, blank-out, would fall for that, expatriate furnace, forever lorder, flounder sheep are, like, the drawn fantasy of knighted swamees, whiners when hit, and this when blighted, and that when slip upped–
His name was Pouf.
I ran into him on the dock where I was assessing Barcloon’s case. Bugger, quotes Borges,
“I am all the women I have loved” and expects me to tie the sails.
He walks quickly, wraps a sandwich, hides his paws in fishnets, denoting a theoretical lightbeing mannerism, undetectable at midnight, but flamboyant in sunshine, crispy as circumstance when the sneeze rises fidget-Wait! Pouf! Exploded shelves. Market Logic returns fingers from shoppers and fisherpeople scatter, constant, welts, belonging, is the situation...
Market Logic: “Some dead. Some living. We had to exile the Barcloon-curious. We had to source some whiteboards, whiteboard markers, stamps, gray curtains, dust mites, coffee, chairs, television producers, “equipment,” lightbeing representatives. Did that, began to film, then here waddled curt into backstage blare music witch trending snopes, voilá, trending!” Market Logic out.
We walked around the dock, picked up pieces of fiberglass, mooned trellises, nervous, but relieved. It wasn’t like it was me, though I, empathy, walked about in mind, soprano-dousing my horse-doulah superfluously and running-through happenings theoretically, it aligned to me detailing the case, there on the dock was fiberglass, full upturned snouts above revolting oyster shelfs, fidge lighters, busted, hey! Banners Oyster shelfs! Slips of paper hey! Lookie Huhi! Uh- uh- hi-i!! Pouf eyes the scent-de-maskers, walled, and Pouf noses mine.
☽☾
We looked at the moon. It angered me, how suchness blinged against our sort of soda-cancer shame, in all the accounts of togetherness I’ve read I’ve never seen another boat as prurient, blissed, turned-out, turnt, hoping-corded, abandoned
Signal-suckers presentation. “Walk Only West, Emergent Barcloons, Sticks, Fido-blitzed, Poke-Recorders, Furr Off Word-Sheaths, Keep Out Signs, Believe Victims, Most of The Time, NO.”
How to recover. I’ve only discovered three files, two of which were only Barcloon-curious, not the Barcloon-real. The manual, the boardroom notes, LSD figures in lists, have exactly twice the recommended results, eo ipso, saint Pouf and I shush out Saint Laurent. Media?
Back at home. Not home, per se, but stylish motel. Plunked soaps. Did washing, did sorting, did a select breathing exercise, peeled teeth-whitening strips, peeled outfits, peeled onion, sleeped, sixteen candles, breakfast at Iphigenia’s, note-taking at Martinelli’s, break at revenue-description-Pete’s, wishful stop, the motel with stylish sequins at industry-standard relocated parking and pamphlets to serve station baguettes 7-11 24-7 at photobooths wherein bugs, creatures of despotic career, careened their surfaces and shat out shells, which not even death measures, compromises nor shames, yet therein cooks itself into statements.
I-Statements:
I love lightself
I feel lightfeelings
I actualize lightacts I cultivate lighthabits I seem lightrash
I wonder about the volume of Pouf’s second wig, the wheat brigade plaster sort of light top, trays, tinsel (red) loco blood power on stove or store, mercy,
mercy knows for sure have mercy on Pouf on me, and buy a whistle if you please. I’m mysterious.
I’m also onto something: diaries/Tinders of lightbeings topological horsepenis cachés spellings and mistakes unhoove destroyed contracts such as:
awaks
And that was all...
Until
(sp.)
(temp.)
(space.)
r ad . io .gra fy
lingooal
s pa . se
paw. ty!!
d.
A surprise
Drycleaning shelters
Murmurs “BAITS”
Wino
Ostomy bag goes
Glyph, hives } } } } }
Who’s out
Who’s balloon
Who’se entitled
Screenshare?
Yes. Ontime.
I call Diane, it’s business. Tradition ligaments the search for hours and melon wants water-organism poultices, water-glove relax sippy safe with drops any safer she’d hide down smells and break up into bite-size cakes. Have you digested, rocks. I tell Diane, I have not. This proves itself, in schadenfreude, our purpose-cot is pining, tells.
☎
I call Agent Priscilla, I like her. Wind wips the Yukon edge furious like formica couture housebeetles arrest raking residents on fall by streets, then she makes mini stakes buttering pertussis, removes my ouch, cush
Recipe for mini buttery pertussis steaks:
Vape drawer (closed) Shellacked rose
10 Bingos Noseholds
1⁄2 c. oil
(Wrap all in foil)
Recipe for formica couture housebeetles:
Cow dish
Rental application, page 65 Finch
2 cl. dirt
Flinch around together saws, Boar’s Head slice and rigatoni, a housewifebeetle’s paw, sign it! Then smudge the clause, it’s
worm-salad-dish.
Sitting on the couch in shot brass frame winking at mackerel set in lucite stars, remote relief is handy so is cut laughter bloating virtual shades of casino barn burgundy garment district to slapstick speak! I say. Coffee? O nose my knowing itself to be not perfect know. O notes regrown to perfect boats who sink in situationships, know. O stone read note-taker’s pubic livejournal juvenale and bones will permanent warnings will lick sales wishing smells, pasta silence. O must I stay in. Inside visual REAL
I assemble three folios and the dropper Agent D fed at beginning. Little smiles arise around my dropper debut, curbing phonetically as if the dope wasn’t something I ate. Chose to, not technically, was tricked, blimey, who forgot the self, my purpose become elf. Agents surrounded my presentation and I thought I died. Down a tree. Inside myself, lightbeings revealed what
had actually occurred: the LSD was used to fur my physique, mind, handcuffs, and pretty much everything about seeing, that was LSD peeking through shapes, vapes put swankily it is Agent D.
Enter: blasphemy.
I will get back at Agent D. Phonebooks and playbooks will be used to mark the agency’s train. Commuters may be used to absorb the paranoid polaroids I had confetti’d at the club, or kiddo stores or workwear could be also used,
TOOLS:
- Phonebooks and playbooks 2. Polaroids
3. Kiddo stores or workwear
-A raincoat may also be used
- Bees
5. Colloquial Barcloon Dictionaries 6. LSD?
-Definitely
Lightbeings are inside of me. LSD was used to allow me to be penetrated. I’m pissed. I’m hardening. I’m almost rock. Elemental shelfs is me if wedding was lure to underwhelm goats, like, I have lightbeings in my toast. Wee, disdain deli cells while I’ll dim sum out, over a disaster, four, the cure unendured, totally wiped
Big people have partnered with Barcloons. This I know. Documented the bingo by beans put pinkly into spells. Swell, I photograph, and open knells, in light I look over spirals pearled with whittled faces, pore over car shows, olive hothouses and Pimple Swirl & Co. Hello?
Elise Houcek and Zoe Darsee recommend The Official CIA Manual of Trickery and Deception and the Simple Sabotage Field Manual (Strategic Services Field Manual No. 3).
