The Book of Pages: Difference between revisions

Latest revision as of 20:03, 12 August 2018

This is why we can't have any OK things

I didn't ask for my hat to be converted into a flat rag bath. I do not recall nor do I recoil on how or why you boiled all the soil for the radius of several blocks. I go down I slow down. I sit and chew my chalk. Let the political world go by, as long as it's not me that's poked in the eye. Keep rushing, gotta hurry, got a date with a grave in a couple decades. Rushing about and prepping things. Getting all tan for hells eternal flames. Shining shoes and a bright top hat. I can dance a couple ways and I am ready for all that. I got a 3-d printer that can print any badge. Don't fuck with me, I'lll pull false authority. Truth holds no sway on me nowadays. No plight blights afterbites or flaming kites today. No truth holds sway. I will stay on replay today. That's OK, let's make it forever. Catch cupcakes from the screaming white waters. Lay in the hay with the country folk's daughters. Form a caravan that stretches across the land. Eating snacks I am barely aware of as I show the TV ways into my mind. Consume, all the way to doom. Why else can't we have nice things? The cogs are clotted green with mildew and spilled brews. The walls give away in sad flaps. Chalk protection circles around me as a jerk it, glow in the dark merkin. You know the clotted dawn. The ungolden triad, the pockmarked nipples. The soylent in chief. The ever-lasting flash. Lost my faith in cheeses. Many years poll vaulting all the way home. The wells beyond the known fields. The rats that cross the ground in mass. The strange bird calls late at night. Bubbles from unknown scripts. A dozen projectile bug part flicks. A shed skakeskin shirt a murky meadow I had to desert years ago.

What gives

Many drinks into the night, Jack Clarke started playing some tunes. The Crispy bacon 23 and a half started the playlist with rollicking walking bass lines and flange soaked didgeridoos. Bells and atonal whistles, and bellowing from a far off confrontation caught on field recorder. Next up, the Ripping Rippingtons. Slide sitar and Jim Whiskey's famous edible drumset. A long bluesy dirge that takes forty-five minutes to hear. Jack was drunk as hell by the time it was over. Next the punk power of 80's lesbian rock band, the Cunning linguists. A valkrie war cry of five fat blonds packing power onto power and rocking Jack's socks off. He never found his right sock again after that event. Jack went for a piss, looked in the mirror a bit. Got a bag of chips and a soda from the kitchen. He missed a short song while away. He returned to hear the last forty seconds of the Tremolo Counts rendition of Strange Fruit. He loved what he heard but he passed out after opening the bag of chips and spilling the soda on the floor. A pivital song lost, forgotten, never heard again. Back to sleep, away from the herd again. Taking in some dream tourism. A rapid eye movement vacation. They do it all across the nations.

When the night writhes

Statues of clay

For thousands of years, these statues rested under the lake til the great drought brought them out. Pre-human statues kilned in forest fires. Gilled amphibian humanoid beings.Of course, shortly after being discovered the Smithsonian Institute came from nowhere, like Men in black to gather up these ancient statues and take them somewhere to be smashed into dust.

Sticker farm

The childhood farm grew green tall and lush. Lizards and turtles and frogs filled the pond. But then the wealthy nearby county damned to river to keep it to themselves. The land grew dryer. Many lifeforms died or moved on. No more lizards, goodbye frogs. But thorns, stickers cockleburs, basically about anything that can stab you but is not a cactus grew all over the farm. These stickers had extractable chemicals so a truck's flatbed full can net a farmer a couple hundred bucks. A hell of a price to pay for toiling to gather tens of thousands of these nasty items. Sticker farm, barely making enough to feed the fams and pay the taxes. Burning stickers for warmth in the cold of winter. I still remember dozens of broken off sticker tips burning with mild toxic throbs under my skin. Cold, cold sticker farm, eating grasshopper meats.

Other uses for Silos

That certain pasture

Certain spots are bends on the map. Places where the actual amount of space there is bendible. This pasture can go on for miles when things line up right.

Cold walk for an empty box

Strangers are in the field

Malted Manifestos

Tip the scales til the jewels run out splash on the ground like cherry wine. And the tubes come unglued. The palace falls all rat chewed. We view this and approve. It changes the hue of our moods. Malted Manifestos for all. With vanilla powder, I shall scrawl. Mystical pudding beer for everybody here. I shall step into the light as soon as the sun goes down. Bleak giggles, smeared Mask care ah. Tubes plug into the walls and are not sanitary. Medium sized baby bunting. The rebellion of the Bile Gods. Nasal chieftains, Ash storm blocks the sun. Long walks while blacked out on a drunk. The windchime office, the gathering of empty water bottles. Tongues lap holes to escape the walls. The night leaves a fine layer of lipstick kisses overall material objects. Scratch and sniff manifestos. Exoskelital roses. Inter-painitory die ag noses. The waffle lands. The saddest dose. The unknown pillars of the chokey ghost. A tugboat full of smoked smut. A tunnel of clotted party debris. Gathering black, blue, and red berries from the trees.

@@ Line 1: / Line 1: @@
 [[Category: Bibliography of Mystery X]]
-== Mid-West Mythos==
-'''Rituals of the new rain'''
-Long dawn when the dew cures the leaves, mellow breeze drys them hanging on the clothesline. A flapping fanning of leaves like autumn hands. Now we spread a light layer of flower resins. Little hard clusters of sugar that raise bumps on the mushrooms that grow in the shelter belt after rain. The long dawn when we bake masks of bread in a red brick oven. The symphony of birds surrounds us.
-Slow splendorous dreams in the hammock breeze. A kingdom made of thought. A light mist of nutrient rain. The smoke of savory herbs in the silent wind. When the crows die we remove the beaks and paint them with bright glitters. They hang in clacking mobiles and in clicking windchimes.
-Yellow grains that bend and flex in the wind like the water of an inland lake.
-Morning lows in with curls of floating mystic fog. Birds rattle and chirp, strange ever-changing feathered folk songs. Soap made of grub worms. Shampoo created from frogs legs. The long dawn may never end. Evenings spent lolling in a boat, along the swollen flooded river. Long snakes bask on the banks.
-'''Tomato God'''
-Deep underground, hundreds of pounds of red ripe larval substance. The Tomato God is fond of sacrifices and masked dancing in all night bonfire rituals. Red blood, red tomatoes. When the patch is ripe, take a life, blood sprays on the hungry plants. The higher quality life fed to the Tomato God the finer the product. That's why football players from nearby towns are a prime target. A good healthy strong jock can feed the crops for three years and produce the finest yields. Red ropes hang in parents closets til the nice sacrifice dance.
-'''With these new seasons come new holidays'''
-These who are gifted among fields wearing strapped on wooden beaks. The others nodded. A new holiday for the fifth season. He that hath me spring and summer, in Suspension cities. "I heard the voice book, The Lion from the book talks like a man". And I remember seven mountains. Watching them from the round window of my cell in the suspension city. Tall jagged mountains said to be the thrones of long-dead gods. And I beheld delicate and sensitive merchandise. Fine things crafted by Elvin hands on the dark side of the moon. Biscuits baked with the nectar of the eon flower.
-Gushing of abominations worships him that, Primal Analog Forbidden beast voice. Fucking in a dark of God sent blasphemy, walk in it. Blind sex with rubber gelatinous beings. Gouts of foul-smelling cum drags the breeze. Dead bodies of Men who did not survive the ritual squelch under walking feet. These four-decades-long weednaps. Twenty-thirty years in a stoned sleep. Awake one midnight alone in the field, miles from the nearest small town. Get up and walk, there's nothing else to be done now. Holy, holy, LORD trumpet. A fanfare that shreds the hills. The villagers cower under a rain of frogs. Workers go hungry, replaced by cogs. Townsfolk marched away at gunpoint, the city devours another town. Forced to relocate to a dirty unfertile lot.
-Strange variations of religions go on crusades to smite the sinners in other towns. the differences between themes get more extreme over time. The kids chalk the sidewalks with strange new sigals, the images of new gods not yet known to the adults.
-'''We can't stop sleeping'''
-Special herbal mixes at the great ziggurat. To empty tomorrow train. Packing smoke in back brain. A sea of constant milking. That's where late winter crabs scuttle. They are responsible. But moon Coffee maiden whose on a full throne, which are with the Trancemaker. The Crossroads have brought along from sleep in a drunken Dream. Airtribe Meets the seal, and, lo, their Nightshade an Omnipresent eclipse bird it comes out of the river. but I drunkenly follow. I see now A plague of frogs. brutal kick of nausea throne.
-I've been calling colors. The pipes produce porn to the varnished remix of unscored thoughts. Some four that sat on blood from the big wildlands farm/ranch. and with death, the red square. The book written within the Eclipse. you might be selected to kill the bright sunlight. The same new songs under the construction going drawn from a box. The trees were sprinkled like still wet roadkill. Be unto him that signs of human activity world society and technology a feedback pain signal gristle speck and tinsel breeze. Ancestors Temple of Dust that you drink. Islands of green salt. Light The Leaving Time of pleasure. A feverish day the name is beast they say, Come and cry into tear-milking machines. A long night voice. Dressed in black these here fall down before him in this complex of outbuildings. They dug it in windchime calm.
-The leashes churn in their caskets, from behind a veil other than your own. The next stranger's yard free now, reign people's sheeples. The steeple town. A boat ride to twenty elders of the flowers. Leave the house. A spotlight on the highest income earner's dicks out. stumbled over the blankets other sticky Cold gropes Pull them apart, put Night Jasmine in the hole that once housed their heart.
-Sweet silent snow dive bombs and curls in the hot July wind. Another zen pin taken down buried underwear, its a turf war, its another chore. We are lost now, someone ate the candy map. We followed wholly butterflies and we done lost track.
-[[File:PhotoLab app IMG 20180130 130657.jpg|130px]]
 == This is why we can't have any OK things==
-I didn't ask for my hat to be converted into a flat rag bath. I do not recall nor do I recoil on how or why you boiled all the soil for the radius of several blocks. I go down I slow down. I sit and chew my chalk. Let the political world go by, as long as it's not me that's poked in the eye. Keep rushing, gotta hurry, got a date with a grave in a couple decades. Rushing about and prepping things. Getting all tan for hells eternal flames. Shining shoes and a bright top hat. I can dance a couple ways and I am ready for all that. I got a 3-d printer that can print any badge. Don't fuck with me, I'lll pull false authority. Truth holds no sway on me nowadays. No plight blights afterbites or flaming kites today. No truth holds sway. I will stay on replay today. That's OK, lets make it forever. Catch cupcakes from the screaming white waters. Lay in the hay with the country folk's daughters. Form a caravan that stretches across the land. Eating snacks I am barely aware of as I show the TV ways into my mind. Consume, all the way to doom.
+I didn't ask for my hat to be converted into a flat rag bath. I do not recall nor do I recoil on how or why you boiled all the soil for the radius of several blocks. I go down I slow down. I sit and chew my chalk. Let the political world go by, as long as it's not me that's poked in the eye. Keep rushing, gotta hurry, got a date with a grave in a couple decades. Rushing about and prepping things. Getting all tan for hells eternal flames. Shining shoes and a bright top hat. I can dance a couple ways and I am ready for all that. I got a 3-d printer that can print any badge. Don't fuck with me, I'lll pull false authority. Truth holds no sway on me nowadays. No plight blights afterbites or flaming kites today. No truth holds sway. I will stay on replay today. That's OK, let's make it forever. Catch cupcakes from the screaming white waters. Lay in the hay with the country folk's daughters. Form a caravan that stretches across the land. Eating snacks I am barely aware of as I show the TV ways into my mind. Consume, all the way to doom. Why else can't we have nice things? The cogs are clotted green with mildew and spilled brews. The walls give away in sad flaps. Chalk protection circles around me as a jerk it, glow in the dark merkin. You know the clotted dawn. The ungolden triad, the pockmarked nipples. The soylent in chief. The ever-lasting flash. Lost my faith in cheeses. Many years poll vaulting all the way home. The wells beyond the known fields. The rats that cross the ground in mass. The strange bird calls late at night. Bubbles from unknown scripts. A dozen projectile bug part flicks. A shed skakeskin shirt a murky meadow I had to desert years ago.
@@ Line 47: / Line 12: @@
 == What gives==
-Many drinks into the night, Jack Clarke started playing some tunes. The Crispy bacon 23 and a half started the playlist with rollicking walking bass lines and flange soaked didgeridoos. Bells and atonal whistles, and bellowing from a far off confrontation caught on field recorder. Next up, the Ripping Rippingtons. Slide sitar and Jim Whiskey's famous edible drumset. A long bluesy dirge that takes forty-five minutes to hear. Jack was drunk as hell by the time it was over. Next the punk power of 80's lesbian rock band, the Cunning linguists. A valkrie war cry of five fat blonds packing power onto power and rocking Jack's socks off. He never found his right sock again after that event. Jack went for a piss, looked in the mirror a bit. Got a bag of chips and a soda from the kitchen. He missed a short songs while away. He returned to hear the last forty seconds of the Tremolo Counts rendition of Strange Fruit. He loved what he heard but he passed out after opening the bag of chips and spilling the soda on the floor.
+Many drinks into the night, Jack Clarke started playing some tunes. The Crispy bacon 23 and a half started the playlist with rollicking walking bass lines and flange soaked didgeridoos. Bells and atonal whistles, and bellowing from a far off confrontation caught on field recorder. Next up, the Ripping Rippingtons. Slide sitar and Jim Whiskey's famous edible drumset. A long bluesy dirge that takes forty-five minutes to hear. Jack was drunk as hell by the time it was over. Next the punk power of 80's lesbian rock band, the Cunning linguists. A valkrie war cry of five fat blonds packing power onto power and rocking Jack's socks off. He never found his right sock again after that event. Jack went for a piss, looked in the mirror a bit. Got a bag of chips and a soda from the kitchen. He missed a short song while away. He returned to hear the last forty seconds of the Tremolo Counts rendition of Strange Fruit. He loved what he heard but he passed out after opening the bag of chips and spilling the soda on the floor. A pivital song lost, forgotten, never heard again. Back to sleep, away from the herd again. Taking in some dream tourism. A rapid eye movement vacation. They do it all across the nations.
@@ Line 68: / Line 33: @@
 Certain spots are bends on the map. Places where the actual amount of space there is bendible. This pasture can go on for miles when things line up right.
+'''Cold walk for an empty box'''
+'''Strangers are in the field'''
@@ Line 73: / Line 41: @@
-== The door only ripples==
-It took me three minutes to get up off that worn out easy chair. So hammered with the booze and pills and greasy sea-food salads. I belched with every step with a sporadic bass hits of staccato flatulence to make the beat complete. I made it to the little window in the door to see my beloved of ten years back opening her car door. I started to turn the door handle when I suddenly sharted. Liquid and gas trickling down my pants. I sadly watched her go. I checked my phone to see if she texted or called, even though she know know my number. No, just swung by all unexpected like. I washed off, changed clothes and brooded over more booze awhile.
+[[File:PhotoLab app IMG 20180130 130657.jpg|130px]]
+== Malted Manifestos==
-[[File:PhotoLab app IMG 20180405 054732.jpg|130px]]
+Tip the scales til the jewels run out splash on the ground like cherry wine. And the tubes come unglued. The palace falls all rat chewed. We view this and approve. It changes the hue of our moods. Malted Manifestos for all. With vanilla powder, I shall scrawl. Mystical pudding beer for everybody here. I shall step into the light as soon as the sun goes down. Bleak giggles, smeared Mask care ah. Tubes plug into the walls and are not sanitary. Medium sized baby bunting. The rebellion of the Bile Gods. Nasal chieftains, Ash storm blocks the sun. Long walks while blacked out on a drunk. The windchime office, the gathering of empty water bottles. Tongues lap holes to escape the walls. The night leaves a fine layer of lipstick kisses overall material objects. Scratch and sniff manifestos. Exoskelital roses. Inter-painitory die ag noses. The waffle lands. The saddest dose. The unknown pillars of the chokey ghost. A tugboat full of smoked smut. A tunnel of clotted party debris. Gathering black, blue, and red berries from the trees.
-== A Plant's hell==
-Plants hell even signs Wilton the really intense sunlight. Dragonflies can practice combat patterns to get her across the right. Cobwebs do a spastic Dance of the intense Breeze. Mulberries Moonfire on the branches. Old foundations revealed in fields buildings that have been gone for many decades. Up comes bones from many years ago murder victims of some forgotten crime. lambsquarters begin to grow all over the place you know and take over the earth a big old Forest of lamb's quarter old foundations revealed and feels building as I have been gone for a mini decades many years murder victims of some forgotten crime family reasons why can't I am  lambsquarters begin to grow all over the place you know and take over the earth a big old Forest of lambs quarters prego phones and frame deserts it was more City shotgun a shell last longer than the goddess who was shot through activating metal then fading plastics of bright colors. Till I was filled it was so nice to have a talk with constipated rusty steel slowly crack with a violent you make the freaking items I make the night Diana's sign I got the hills bubbling roads overturned steals this song is this the screen less to shoot people the ground from Burlington divorce lawyers house can get to the tummy ache every 3 days official can use a Superman there they going down in that Snowmass there are a heart full donut holes as a guy with a pair of underwear making fluffy out of Wilburn grasshopper heads there are a whole street construction sirens made into ritual suits and ties. Previously unknown animals now or something. Math class and flaps that rustle and now they help this to get your armpit whole morning pies going to make you choke and I bet you'll be loving it be loving and  you I miss you love you love you love you love you love the turkey is the age of the moles of mommy late every day this is the age of the summer subway is the age of field completely eating to the red by chords of angry bright locusts with firing stains and Firefly lives in space to propose is the age do not know if the H20 wish it would know but the heat is here forever but the heat is here forever against of the group tomorrow at the reliable trailer back to the real thing though I've got a knife made out of compressed stickers from Pennsylvania Avenue.
-'
+[[File:PhotoLab app IMG 20180405 054732.jpg|130px]]