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So we started again, selecting a scaly chicken leg from the pot, coq au vin part two, every platter of food a landscape. All hail to the infant imaginary you suppress each time you descrate the esemplastic imperative with a working lunch!

The baroque escutcheon of chicken-stew symmetry had creaked open a massive door and plunged me into the actuality of my own intestines, Bowlahoola's furnace and its terrible chemical fyres ...

Then I slipped on a churning escalator of tripe, my soft dick like something out of Stanley Spencer.

The comic book came away in my hands, it was Iris's dream and I was being observed by a carrot-top alien.

The scrunch in negative was generative and genitive, germinating native scorch marks in my flesh. Clouds seeded foetal forms, my ague.

Mordecai, still dreaming of prebirth, floated in dada levity, knowing nothing yet of gravity ...

I was intricately bound to the oriental carpet of my own natal situation, where every plash made a bubble of amniotic soup.

Which entailed shrimping the imp up the Thames Estuary to the ghost docks, where we watched the phantom facts feed upon the corporate containers.

Inside the maw of the gigantesque beastie it was neck crick, marsh pong, bone eneavour, sinew squirm. I took my brolly and rolled it up, an improvised weapon. All surrealism is haunted by Alan Moore, so get the blakelocks fastened and keep your powder when you cry. Kerchief. Red spot. Marrow bones.

The serpent line was a bunched-up carriage of vertebrate shocks, each one reeking of burnt rubber. I plied him upper mouth, got caught by the Esther star. This one flapped a flag in my face, unruly Russians staring over the rusty parapet.

The truth had to be written incredibly small, an intimate as cellular structure, or it got the responsible adult into trouble.

The pictures on the walls were shouting slogans. There was no need for commentary. My grey cares fell like fleece onto the pinewood floor.

A cut-out was a falling dragon, the universal animation crawling like skin, Chinese lanterns met on a dark night in autumn.

And the proceeds were strictly commercial.

Woops, tumult blurge, two modes were penetrating me, and the sheer violence of the transition between states would not let me transmit a conclusive image. I was picturing the dialectic! My mouse pen was firing off liquorice stag beetles and sugar cormorants at your taste buds.

Complexity loomed in the transfer between two cels, the jump and flich at the riverine threshold, now revealed as nonconceptual existence in process. I cracked the egg and fried it. More vortex looms beyond the wefty masquerade, and my toasted iota frazzles on your risen stave. Load the code and let the circuits run their coarse along my polished thigh.

Thyme to improvise an ending to the cooking course. All green bits down to "subjective" image flesh, the lowly blossom on the pavement shingle. Curl lips, my passion spent, like hositite glinting in the kerbstone. Whore frossed and gusset pride, the point erased to murk you look before you lurk. Meissen jay who takes the rake, let out the crab who sidles underneath your smile. Bonne chance.



More Eyeballism

Back to Coq Au Vin One