Weird were stemmed cuticles ~ A Noir Pataphor Parable

Weird were stemmed cuticles

~ A Noir Pataphor Parable ~

 

Weird were stemmed cuticles – relationships are often spavined – immutable vicegerent. He touched his ear, but it had gone chicane. He planted a middlemost piastre for every vespiary overboast, and the triatomic wind blarneyed his wife with putrefying meridian convivial neologism full of spectres and llamas. He lifted his mesmeric deliquescing bratwurst. He then declaimed a copyrightable tracheal resettlement. A conductible redeposited mistranslating would soon hydrolyze, because other overhanded semiotics knew radishes and unremembered taffrails.

 

If you’re patient, don’t you have a soul? A tactual cullet was coming toward him down the slender paseo of the rushy-lined approach—a skrimished, buoyant overphilosophized chackle. Monoclonal trephine detected slung, silk-clad barnacles, as unmarred chazan drew disgregating. As a squeezable foie and he knew, tattered preoperated canonicate was ineffectual. Welded sinistrality hazed the pellet, but hardbound carioca was unpronounceable kluck. Living with knockabout dynast – Abominable business. Isn’t that important?

 

Mensurable ferroconcrete caused enolization. And winy autoradiographs waltzed by sawn roots that wore neat, high-heeled shoes that were very trig and basiating. Hemp waffled the mortise joint and proximal shad-bush as mortar boswellized. Hairy Bones was an expert on the latest styles of sequential hallucinosis, for he was by profession, an infrasonic thermomotor. But there was in his appraising regard of this particular pair, on this particular morning, a sloop that was not wholly impersonally professional.

 

 

As the stauncher outmoded him, Hairy Bones raised his dielectric metaphor to interwed arpeggios. Phrasing sheep were very cumulus communistic, with curving flips and salted poetics, unconsummated sky-sails blowing slowly about presubsisted gears. He smelted a frankincense, a comrady sort of bile he felted with the need to overcome the archaic icon, which is such a stultifying amnesic fluid. Percolating dermal disseizin gravitated towards hydrolyses allusions, which, in turn, lead to the attraction of a dissonance between deforestation and poetry, which hyperventilated impurity and bailable chicalote for everyone. Weak moss and ferns often represented at the end of flour lectures that boasts shortcomings in the barren pearls of unexploited photoemission safety probiotics that seemed to be inundating the orbit of lunar unquieting – then penetrated someone with expressive alliteration – painted a picture of luxury and lute past tense, other than over-rent brushes of the flans and duet serfs, in a cone of illusions.

 

 

 

Note:

The pataphor composition was created by using word collage. Random words were inserted into paragraphs, replacing various words. Paragraphs were taken from different books found on Project Gutenberg. The photo scenes from European Silent Films were taken from The Soul of The Moving Picture by Walter Julius Bloem, which can be found on Project Gutenberg (Link).

Asemic Portrait – J Scott Smart – The Fatman, Radio Detective

A Pataphor Collage Prose Poem:

The Fatman always flings facts

 

He was as hard-boiled as a baked onion on an Antarctic jet stream; intellect shone through every layer of thought – his silent partner wore sunglasses, and carried a mime’s smile in his pocket. The Fatman rolled into the room spotting the clues lounging on the sofa: they curled up and tried to hide behind the pillows and the doilies. So obvious – he just grunted his questions…. they slapped them in the face – they spit out teeth, alibis, a foie gras of faux pas.

“Judas, that Ahab, loved very much.”

“Yes, The Marquis loves all kinds of spices, especially in Paris!”

“I got married to a beautiful woman in just one month.”

He responded on a dime, keeping his balance, between a quarter and a shot of rye, “The result is a myriad of burgers – because the burgers don’t ride on fish. In this world you can’t afford any comfort.”

Peculiar looks stared at him in a puzzled defiance of a deafening silent soliloquy, “There are many things I don’t understand. Does anyone buy it today? A pelican can can-can, but where did the parrot go when the masquerade melted into the meringue? ”

He twisted their excuses into hypermetrical hubris that topped off their hypotactic cocktails, “About what – Easy to remove with Articles for Hobby Schools; Find suggestions for robots.”

Their faces fell to the floor, slipping beneath the rugs, trying to ignore the facts. Dust bunnies and pointed petards left them grasping their bare faced lies in their bone-headed fists, with a flatulence of knuckled contradictions. The sweat pooled around the room and floated them and the chairs out into the outer hallway and venting vestibule, washing all down the steps and into the wailing paddy-wagon; it was a sad day, that was a certainty, as the cackling cracked concrete walls twitched with window casements gleeful as a curmudgeon’s cough.

The Fatman always flings facts, suffocating the crime scene with unvarnished truth and butterflies.

A photo of a curtain trying to escape on the sand

When The Dad closed the car door,

The Toy opened up,

mechanically beating the drum –

with monkey hands.

 

The stomach stirs with the doughnut-doorbell’s melody –

When The Hat arrived and entered the room,

He was shot with an arrow,

ran disguised as a closed door,

and lay quietly

on the floor like a Persian cat,

impervious to the chanted signs

of greedy secrets.

Will he go out?

 

He saw a hand pointing upward – a breathless voice said, “ Look at that! What is she doing there now !?”

Like the hands of a mad clock, The Woman twisted, her legs danced on the rug – she wore no stockings, her legs were thin wires of weary hope – sliding, sliding, sliding. A bundle of dry twigs swayed and twitched to the beat of a toy monkey’s drum – clap, clap, clap.

There was popcorn in the bowl on the low table in front of them –

a big, dirty, straw yellow embroidered hand bag – filled with regrets and stinging rebuttals spilled out torn snapshots and movie magazine pages –

The shape of the face and neck

is not enough for the neck –

No one found a way

because of the song

he composed.

He sent a song of justice

sliding across the floor,

a Silly-Putty ball,

with stretched

comic-strip faces.

 

A recent moment of his romance, sits like a cigarette ember on a foil-ball ~ his general vision feels fictive, hugged by the edges of a faded snapshot, a monochrome moment of the mundane wistfully becoming a blurred shadow – He opens that venting heart to the door, has a kiss compromised by the chafing light etching loss on his dry paper lips.

 

 

Before going to bed,

7 Hidden Swans,

like a man’s backpack,

carry the weary burden

upward.

 

 

I have a picture of my father

Blown off the wire I made –

ice is tied to a rope

that rises in the smoke.

 

That day is cool for me –

The Photo is broken now,

keeps the smoke swirling

in front of the curtain.

 

It is said that the skin is exposed –

I(t) cried and brought the birdhouses

I(t) had collected to my room.

 

Lying next to the landline,

Eye was surrounded by light –

tracks appears

in a vibrating scene.

 

 

It smells at night –

Weaving threads

And the trees’ limbs

rooted in the empty sky.

 

 

Not because eyes are red

after kissing her –

her neck finally felt the light –

the headlights in her ears, sticking like a thumb to the sugared doughnut, on which her portrait/his painting was standing.

 

 

While working in Paisley, I paint both the floor and the water, under a watch full of eyes. I have hands, but it’s oil-paint, like melted butter turning into rue. Oil for me and my favouritism car can be turned on at any time –

I Keep it in Good Condition – like a song that keeps repeating at the mention of a name in a photograph.

 

Maybe it’s that person, but not me,

a singer who doesn’t like singing –

A photo of a curtain trying to escape on the sand –

A bird that smokes like a kiss,

She closes her eyes and hugs me,

as I stand in the Camera Obscura that is her heart.

 

I’m a liar, probably;

stork stands in low waters

twists head catches frog –

eyes catch headlights’ gaze,

I can no longer trust a woman to stare at me

and sing an unfamiliar song.

 

 

This collage poem is my response (derived/inspired by) to sweet burn of fire.

This Dadaist mix combined other pieces of text from various sources, including a random word generator, Project Gutenberg , some of my other compositions, as well as other online archival text. It went through multiple translations & reassembling before coming back to English for final rearrangement and word-phrasing modification. The final form became a surreal stream of consciousness hardboiled narrative.

Conspiracy Poetics

MagaLibs created by Kevin Paul Keelan and lastcre8iveiconoclast, 2022 click image for source.

 

This  great creative writing game/exercise created and posted by KPKworld is called, MAGAlibs For the Whole Family (linked). I thought I would give it a try. I used my favourite Random word generator,   linguistics terminology, a helping of Mysterious Universe news, and my trusty dictionary of literary terms.

I added my own twist to this MAGAlib, with two closing stanzas. I call the whole form Conspiracy Poetics.

 

Those Anorthositic Democrats are putting Anishinaabe microchips in the election tesseracts to control our children’s thoughts!

The Climacteric Vaccine was developed by Agoraphobics to implant labyrinths into patriotic grammaticalized Americans!!

Giant lasers from Zothique  are being used by the Bag Pipers & Steamfitters Illuminati to light enormous metonymy fires, so they can build a high-speed flibbertigibbet!!!

Those Semiotic Democrat pedalists are using robotic Thylacines to control our cuticles!!!!

National retailer, A&W Root Beer, is using the names of its aerialists to capture and wassail kids for the Poetics Conspiracy!!!!!

Nancy Pelosi is in cahoots with Betty White ( she’s not dead, and neither are the other Golden Girls – they’ll reveal themselves & the BIG TRUTH about the Jersey Devil at the Truckers for Putin Protest in Hoboken, NJ) to genetically modify our American platinum sitars, so George Soros can metatexualize everyone ( just like those Canadian Socialists )!!!!!!

 

The experience really makes you think without words.

 

More about this source text –

 

This is the essence of the eye,

A civilian congestion sighs

before Erasmus’s

comical consequence –

a conical quantum context.

 

The organic blade prefixes

the broken converter –

When the ritual contrives

on a hobbled street.

 

 

Also in the News:

Secrets of a Japanese Mermaid Mummy to be Revealed

Noir no Noh Journey: a Forest Fragmented Reversal Pose

The Memoir of Dadaist Detective

– Case 0gh1 –

~Noir no Noh Journey:

a Forest Fragmented Reversal Pose~

 

City or house, a sole alias supports a lung beneath a simulated plastic soul. At the head of the first flight of a begrimed stairway, leading up from a broken entrance-way, on a street by the Del Sloraine Theatre, stood a door. Behind it was the office of Hazelton Dzeusas. Dzeusas was a massive meandering aggregate of equivocations. Whether he was dead or alive depended on who came through the door before the clock hit a minute past three in the morning.

Note in a dead man’s hand –

>> Suitable gift apartments are classified by the court.

I hate you – slimy-gloams and thespians dance under the midnight sun.

the corner raven is watching you,

like a tongue around a thistle drum,

a strip of smoked paper,

a pencil point tracing

on an eye’s sooty surface.

 

First Observation after finding the note:

 

A surface strips a documentary remainder into the outsider’s existential standpoint (See David Lynch’s “Tuesday’s Lagoon Serenade”), facts fall in a fractal of farce – An inefficient friend lathers the gratuitous liver. The Protagonist/Victim in a Petty Noir better know a good dentist/anthropologist. A Hard-boiled Mystery mulls the mumbling mind in a numbing wine of conjecture; find the Erhu player before they do (don’t tell Jacques).

 

Sign above the counter at the Enticing Erhu Grill

The beautiful sea is different.

To know the reluctant battery,

hardens

spirits’ songs in lower economics.

Sleep brings toad shadows to the party.

You are not new.

****

 

 

 

He walked along MacAdams Street, the theatre goers had long left the sidewalks for home or candle lit encounters. Reaching the wider cross street, he contemplated garish billboards featuring a dissociation of sensibility – motives for murder rose on the steam of the street. Gradually there was a will, and the cigar posed back and forth.

 

 

To the left were sound stages, like grappling hooks in reality. His eyes crawled over the jagged cracks in the sidewalk beneath him – verticals following the dancing seals’ explosion. Walking over to the tattered bulletin-board, he read the notices, knowing all streets lead to the murdered and those who saw them last.

 

 

 

 

~Bulletin-board Notices~

The beloved embryo acts on its own.

Camp in front of the temple to reduce the naturalness.

Participate in liars.

The conversion can be a small part of the solution.

What a snow mountain trailer is when pearls perish.

The Lovely Lady sails tonight – spatula together.

 

The Erhu player was aboard The Lovely Lady. The swank steam ship was set to leave for Zahmphosise ( See Fishbane’s postcard to his cousin Flexham). As he arrived, he saw a woman running proudly on the deck towards certainty and despair, like a clock racing towards New Year’s.

A shot rang out. A knife blade kissed a heart. The brain was broken. Cellophane foamed at the mouth, like a popped champagne bottle, and he pondered –

 

It’s terribly shiny.

Carpenters only worship stronger veils.

Lip joy for crawling treasure bean ants;

A handful of noise breaks the heart in half.

Every speaker knew the tree of vanity –

And in doing so,

you push everything

around the spatula into the sky.

 

 

Closing observations:

 

The Erhu player wanted nothing to do with Jacques, after she corresponded with Fishbane. Hazelton Dzeusas was a fool, stupidly sent money to support crazed Canadian truckers, and hated the theatre goers who paid his bills. A mirror is better than a knife in a fun house. Tragic Doggerel was a death sentence. It’s a great time to sail away to Zahmphosise, or maybe El Zothique.