(written in the three minutes before the phone rang)
Three minute midnight
I woke up never again to remember what it was I left inside me. And draino is tasty and so is peanut butter. And heaven is a chocolate soda. And so is the finger of doubt. And maelstrom.
Weird, Manic Marvella tied a buttcake to a tree. Jaspar Kilgour and his heaven-sent mania and the Marmaduke madness in the leftover calligraphy sessions after the squirrel ruckus dies down and there is a sweeping chrome glimmer of nothingness. Marvelous mai-thai soaked vermillion was what it was.
Many maggots kill so swift—so what? Bobby Bigguns cannot freak—big butt. Political flap and furlongs measure depths, and moatman prophecies in underwear wateriness. Nevill the Draidle Ladle and Noah the Boa constrictor. Loki is a tyrant of Bethesda minnows. Jollity cannot be restrained or retrained or even retrofitted to fit the best and only tuckered holiday oatmeal. Polyp is drained from the swamp. Yellow Smithy in the hullabaloo tenderness and the brushing gentle pawprint in the day-old inch of snow. Helvetica is unusual is so very very unusual and the true type litterbug is machinated holographic rumproastery.
Oh mama, you got to love this thing, I was writing it when I was thinking of you.
Yesterday was a bit too much. What it wasn't was not quite enough. And Zaphod Beeblebum and Baran and Barnabas Sotheby altogether now, sing with me, “We are waltzing around a tree!” And all together now say to me “show me pain and ecstasy,” and here it is today, the surly false friends of everyday. Happy happy so pap-crazed and slap-wacky, so here it is, you can’t blame a business for making a buck, so let me serve it up, it’s on a plate with fries, and French fries tell no lies, and weirdness isn’t wise, and hippy hypnotists, what do they do? They hippy-hypnotize, and they yodel-ay-hee-hoo. They sing of super sizes, and they dance their derring do.
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