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.
In an Alternative Reality, with an Alternative History, American_GunLaws wouldn’t be such a recurring issue. This absurdist deconstructed text of a map would not be such an accurate depiction of American gun restriction laws and contradictory attitudes surrounding them.
The above was originally posted on Mastodon.Art – links connect to Mastodon social media platform.
From the blog, Envisioning the American Dream:
There have been more mass shootings so far in 2022 than there have been days in the year ~ 27 alone have been school shootings.
Today is day 145 of the year, and the country has already experienced 213 mass shootings.
Two hundred and thirteen such attacks in 21 weeks. This averages out to about 10 a week.
Thank your ever effervescent effacement – nothingness assumes the comforting form of monotony – told you to get rid of mystic constellations – today, some sarcophagi – Stable chair fugue, then flatulence.
An outcry for Open Circus races – Call sticks straddle the shadow borders – smell the flowers – by contrast, plumbing rites – well, what did you expect – licorice it is then – the ship of life has arrived – next week’s entertainment, social shenanigans – soubrette’s oblique silhouette began to prefigure solitude – cookery wares everywhere – soft eating you say – well, it should come at no surprise – sunshine helps – increase in bitumen clowns.
cover heavy weather –
There is no direction other than paper.
My shame used philosophy as a tranquilizer.
Loup petal genre duet >
Fifth cathode-ray excess makes an individual
Gothic religion, proverbs,
and eschatological speculation
brings tranquility ~
About his creativity,
Layer of torn paper
on the facade
used for the same purpose –
Makes sure the rules are correct,
Performing arts preclude
traditional drop-down ceiling
novel barn-door latches.
Palpable Art contrast is too stark a stork
to be entertained
in one of the dining rooms
Written absence of an atrium makes the peristyle
a much more public princely space ~
authentic situation was not as simple
as this glasnost legislation
~ Sumerian Garou cougarishly
held that the (re)finery judgment
should not encroach on garish public space.
for the clandestine Candlemas layman,
was nothing but a reinterpretation
of cyclical counter stakes ~>
The day is a mythopoeic constellation.
All day is a mythopoeic constellation.
Cook day is a mythopoeic constellation selection.
As an increase in tethering hand clowns is salutary,
a mythopoeic society is a juxtaposition to piously embroidered scenes.
Underestimating various personal aspects
the revolution ~
Catabolic Edelweiss machine
Parataxis is a literary technique, in writing or speaking, that favours short, simple sentences, without conjunctions or with the use of coordinating, but not with subordinating conjunctions. An often used example is from Pickwick Papers.
“Come along, then,” said he of the green coat, lugging Mr. Pickwick after him by main force, and talking the whole way. “Here, No. 924, take your fare, and take yourself off—respectable gentleman—know him well—none of your nonsense—this way, sir—where’s your friends?—all a mistake, I see—never mind—accidents will happen—best regulated families—never say die—down upon your luck—Pull him UP—Put that in his pipe—like the flavour—damned rascals.” And with a lengthened string of similar broken sentences, delivered with extraordinary volubility, the stranger led the way to the traveller’s waiting-room, whither he was closely followed by Mr. Pickwick and his disciples.
I made use of this passage when constructing my first parataxis prose poem (SEE: ASEMIC TAROT 85).