Here is a text piece I assembled out of automatic texts last year and re-edited recently. I just sent it out to a writing group I'm meeting with on Saturday, and realized it's perfect for the blog. I'm hoping to perform it at an open mic night, and I'm thinking about using it somehow in our project. And I memorized it!
Enjoy...
I’m so in love with him but I wouldn’t know what to do with him when he gets over here. I’ll make sure to wear lipstick that drips off of me like wax onto his cheek, I’ll kiss him too, I’ll loathe myself later for it, in secret, in my imaginary closet, through the window behind my bed where I can witness all the ongoing business conducted in my room without me.
The song sings itself, it signs alongside the wave of an apple shell high in the woods, a layer of canopy in which one can discern a panoply of birds using sign language to each other, and she hears the scraping of feathers as if in a daydream because the setting is too prosperous. Too foul, too rank, too courteous, too preoccupied, she checked them off the list and into her luggage, she had no baggage because the moment vanished, she can only return to it with poetry, invocations and the like, she devolves into madness, singular shrieks and pleas against learning, this fearful light that will sweep you off your feet for a sardonic tango.
I’ll hit my head on this billbog that juts out beyond the cliff’s edge -- oh, I mean downward, downward, Will!! -- we’re departing launching plunging at sunset, power boosters at full force, we don’t boost once, we boost once, twice, endlessly, down the quicksand to the vanishing pool, it’s just a mirage as we’re losing G’s -- F’s, Q’s, P’s -- I’m rolling in the green dough house, the Doctor calls it agoraphobia, he’ll imitate it in the next round of charaders of the Lost Ark, Noah, just be patient, be A patient, he’s at the cliff Bottom after all, you stinker. OK Down to fuck yet? It might wait until next New Year’s which could be any day in this text, but let’s just call it Tomorrow, it was nice to meet you and I promise I’ll call with my beautiful, sparkling voice with a five-octave range, not including my falsetto, call up the doctor to confirm I’m not any sort of squeaky pervert. I can still show off my own objectivity -- thank you very much, but it can’t concern you, it’s there behind the curtain, muffling my voice, robbing me of my jewels, and my agency.
I give it all away, I give me all away to him, I him, he him, whoa whoa, slow down or you’ll forget to swallow. Okay. Shuffle in backwards, don’t worry about the rumba, moon walk, take a chess-knight left, hit the sinks, wash your face, it’s only nighttime once, and it’s your nighttime -- 8pm Central. Funny how central is westward and rock bottom is to the left. I’ll check the back room for a powder anthology.
The song sings itself, it signs alongside the wave of an apple shell high in the woods, a layer of canopy in which one can discern a panoply of birds using sign language to each other, and she hears the scraping of feathers as if in a daydream because the setting is too prosperous. Too foul, too rank, too courteous, too preoccupied, she checked them off the list and into her luggage, she had no baggage because the moment vanished, she can only return to it with poetry, invocations and the like, she devolves into madness, singular shrieks and pleas against learning, this fearful light that will sweep you off your feet for a sardonic tango.
I’ll hit my head on this billbog that juts out beyond the cliff’s edge -- oh, I mean downward, downward, Will!! -- we’re departing launching plunging at sunset, power boosters at full force, we don’t boost once, we boost once, twice, endlessly, down the quicksand to the vanishing pool, it’s just a mirage as we’re losing G’s -- F’s, Q’s, P’s -- I’m rolling in the green dough house, the Doctor calls it agoraphobia, he’ll imitate it in the next round of charaders of the Lost Ark, Noah, just be patient, be A patient, he’s at the cliff Bottom after all, you stinker. OK Down to fuck yet? It might wait until next New Year’s which could be any day in this text, but let’s just call it Tomorrow, it was nice to meet you and I promise I’ll call with my beautiful, sparkling voice with a five-octave range, not including my falsetto, call up the doctor to confirm I’m not any sort of squeaky pervert. I can still show off my own objectivity -- thank you very much, but it can’t concern you, it’s there behind the curtain, muffling my voice, robbing me of my jewels, and my agency.
I give it all away, I give me all away to him, I him, he him, whoa whoa, slow down or you’ll forget to swallow. Okay. Shuffle in backwards, don’t worry about the rumba, moon walk, take a chess-knight left, hit the sinks, wash your face, it’s only nighttime once, and it’s your nighttime -- 8pm Central. Funny how central is westward and rock bottom is to the left. I’ll check the back room for a powder anthology.
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