There is a big beak turnip in the dromedary lesion, a haggis mobile, it is inveterate and nubile, the swilled mocha marker, the tawny billowing speck of spek, twisted and discombobulated, leaching chlorine from a vat of lye.
(translated from 'What It Means to Clear Your Throat')
Grand wenches, sweet dames and tall boy hipheads, weirdoes and wonderlarks, pipsqueak tots and crotchety sidewalk gawkers. A to Z ecstasy, AlphaZimbabwe sunk me, golden skies headlong down a gorge so yellow and splotched, freefalling into destiny and then an evening spent marauding carting Death in the streets. Clone that laugh, bottle and sell it. We can measure a mute man’s wrath: watch his arms as they flail and shake - all so amusing on my cigarette break. Watch the flame, smother it good, a candle threatens the house of wood. Loan me a knife to slice a gourd, praise the Lord: He blessed the porch, spiderwebs cider and sound issued forth.
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