Balzac, dressing-gowned, moustache penner,
championed what I know not.
Whatever it was, it still is.
It was the same with Courbet.
Painter to the ordinary - no ordinary painter.
On a level footing the two find themselves.
They may not have found themselves.
They found themselves.
Only Art and Drama.
It can have been no other way.
No matter how you weigh,
it was a little curse and a blessing.
Joyce, James of course, stands
In trousers - no gown thanks.
Opposite Balzac his work sits.
Not what the words depict
But the words themselves.
Like Cezanne, it's not so much what
But how.
Like Balzac and Joyce,
So too Courbet and Cezanne.
It's a real boar - reality.
An absolute pig of a thing.
Hunting I love but love? I laugh to score.
It's not for everyone...
To care for things long since gone.
Necromance novellist.
Can't you see that you will be one day?
Gone like your wind.
I don't care that you don't care.
Before I turn to serious,
I'll leave in a cloud
Of my own ommissions.
Balzac and Joyce: opposite.
Balzac and Courbet: equal.
Courbet and Cezanne: opposite.
Cezanne and Joyce: equal.
If there's one thing that makes me see stars it has to be a telescope. Seeing stars is best done with your hands on a long instrument. Many's the day that I've just sat there with my hand on it. Heavens above, the heavens above are heavens above. The bodies of work left behind by shining stars is just so much tinkling. Above the stars nothing can be put. Up the stars on the other hand you can't put anything but themselves. But for themselves, stars would have nothing else to live for. To live for a star is a start. A start is just another kind of end. To end closer to the end than the start is another good one. Stars are just so worth reaching for. Even more than the bucket. Even more than the bucket, I like riding the porcelain public transport. Stars and "heavens above": tinkle.
If there's one thing I won't stand for it would have to be the elderly. I simply won't. I believe in the concepts inherent in an ideology based on equality for all. My arse is as bony as the next. I'd know. I love fondling the buttocks of the stranger beside me. If there's one thing I ask the elderly to stand for it would have to be me. They can suffer in their padded jocks, for all I care. The elderly these days just aren't what they were when I was young. When I was, I wasn't that different to how I is. We had to walk miles in the snow barefoot just to go barefoot snow-skiing. Old people, so named because they are really people under all those folds, are far from green but closer to green than not. If there's one thing that goes green faster than the green it has to be the elderly. Shuffling off is something they do every day. It's not too short-sighted to think that those whipper-snappers are a pain in the person next to you's arse. Put down your glasses; this one is over. Forget the perilous youths of today - I was ripped off at the op-shop. Old and young: age.
I havent been around for a while. Ive been busy killing people. Bloggers mainly. Im tired of it all. I want the police to catch me. They dont realise that everyone I have killed has been a blogger yet. Bloggers are nobodies so they just dont get the link between all the murders. Its so easy to kill bloggers. They have all their details online. Its easy to find out where they live and just eliminate them. Noone is the wiser. Im sending a message to the police via Orble. If they take no notice of my intention to kill bloggers one by one, Ill post a U-Tube message. Even then I doubt theyll get it . Ill probably have to kill some of the people running blog sites like Orble. Think about this. You could be next.
As unlikely as it seems, seams are seamless. It seems, madams, that seams are a stress for most mistresses. The thing about them is that they don't stitch trousers. Pants are best left to the dogged. The day my nuts touch the tarmac is the day I come down to earth. Coming down is never easy; despite gravity. Despite gravity, levity is a lot for the lightweights. I can't wait to be so lacking in body that I float upwards. Seemingly, death is the end of consciousness. I remember well the time before I was born. So too, no doubt, I'll be equally happy in retirement. It has many in stitches. I'll have to fly about now. Yet again, I've satisfied my mistress. If you don't believe me, just ask me. There are quite a few faecal fumes festering, funnily. Seems and is: opposite.
If you've ever found yourself suddenly on the nostril, you'll know that it's hard to tell when you're on the nose. It's one of the leading causes of social slippage. There can be no question that answers to leading questions are leading nowhere. Engage yourself with some tale chasing at your own discretion. Unquestionably, answers are the leading responses to leading questions. It's the great quest of all our lies. Bad breath, so seriously smelly, can come from the belly or the baitcatcher. The baitcatcher is another word for the wordwhistler, yet another for foodfossicker. So, next time you find yourself on the wrong end of a bad fall, just lay back and enjoy the ride back into obscurity. Never fret, my little guitars, because truth also lies in obscurity. Forget the fact of what I'm inferring here. Bad breath and minties: opposite.
There can be no confusing confusion with delusion. Grand as it may seem at first, at first glance confusion is an easily explained state of mind typified by a random sequence of intelligible factors in sequential order rearranged into an order that, while seemingly straightforward, is anything but - a mangled web of tangled wreckage left over from a high speed mental collision. If you've ever had tools in the toolshed, you'll know that sitting down to do number ones is the last place that a tooled tyro would want to squat. It's the equivalent of wanking in your cake and having sex with it. No chocolate mud cake for me thanks, I'm on a diet. In any emergency, be it medical or optical, sitting down for a nice blast from the bladder is not nice at all. It's far from the stuff of literary mania. Awards have been won globally by nice books about things that are just so much ffffffffffun. Books that are globally challenging are not what we're looking for, thanks. When you do go to one of those ceremonies, make sure you sit down to eat. Never let it be said that saying nothing is a bad thing. It goes a long way in this world to have a long one in your pants and those unfortunates without the good grace to keep their hands in their pants are truly unfortunate. Far be it from me to write a whole lot of crap and then slap a neat little ending on the end: a whole bunch of crap and a hole in a bunch of crap: opposite.
Due to popular demand I have decided to repost this post. This post was so well received (and acclaimed in some quarters) that the decision really made itself. Things that make themself are always the easiest. It was received with a breath that could only be described as baited. Breaths were held in anticipation and I could only resort to that ever so endearing quality of reposting with a short introduction the piece in question. It's not in question that the post is unquestionable. When you read it again you'll know of which piece I'm talking about. Now, without further delay, I represent to you, and the world at large, what I have reliably been informed is, the most requested post in the whole net. Any net that is made up of posts is bound to be effective. If it hadn't already escaped your unflinching grasp, I am extremely enamoured of the information superhighway. The things one can do with info. I can delay no more. Well, actually I can go on like this interminably. It's a chronic condition that I am afflicted with. My main failing is a failure of fundamental integrity. It has led me to mislead. I've never had a single request for a post to be reposted because I've hardly never ever deposted. I'm usually too busy railing against this thing or that to repost anything. Repost and railing: opposite.
I have always liked subjects of great interest. It's how I got to this point. The point is, I got here. Up to this point, I have kept my interest in subjects of interest quiet for fear of success. I have failed to mention just how interested I am in things and stuff. I have noticed that success and climbing ladders go hand in hand in glove. Hands together for climbing ladders. For the health and safety of others, use medical gloves when achieving great success. Ladders can harbour all sorts of disease. Success is achieved by successfully navigating the rungs. If the phone has done so, pick it up. You'll pick up how enamoured I am with success. It's a product, not of content as some would have you believe but, of subject, my loyal ones. Or is it the other way around? I can't know, let alone remember. The greatest obstacle between me and the next rung is probably my own inability too. Being blessed with the inability to give a frying sock is an abiltity that is highly sought after in the lower echelons of high sobriety. I like stuff and lots of it. Whatever it is, count me in. I'm up for anything that'll get me scaling fishy ladders. There's nothing final about success. The shifting goalposts are nothing compared to the ground beneath your feats. Fell free to punch holes in this pile of unmentionable matter. It'll be good for me. Ladders and snakey: opposite.
Is there any cure for sterilty? I'd love to find the antidote for those who dote on downing the antie. How can you just go on with the inane dribble, drivelling on to nowhere? It's true insanity to sit on top of the ladder without chancing your arm at anything else but what got you there, and for what got you to that level, you should have your neck wrung. I'm going to go out on a limb and say that you might never branch out into areas that you've never been before, and I speak of internal places (and I don't mean external penetration). I've said it before and I'll say it again, I'm going to smear your pap like a cook butters a duck. I won't tell you when to duck when i'm buttering you up for an almighty roast. Potatoes will be your coffin-mates. It's startling to see so much sterilty. Clinical depression I've had to put on the back plate for my steaming. Writing without risk is like so much living in a bubble. Burst out of yourselves, try a new something, a new anything for god's sake. Your antiseptic buckets are poor in spirit and tap into absolutely nothing. Absolute nothing you could ponder in golden showers. The pap-o-meter needle is off the charts, and it's time for another doze. It's all just so much bull. Somehow, for the benefit of my manners, I'll have to put you under before I operate. I'm sent to sleep with the way you operate. Sick and sick: opposite.
Norm
Mal
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