2012: When the World Turned Paisley

I wrote a short satirical novella a while back. The premise is that when we reach the tipping point of enough people realizing that we are being exploited by a few and living in a sea of lies, we will transcend our present paradigm and enter a new one. 2012 represents entrance into this transition point, the time when "the world turns paisley." If you look at the fractal in the sacred geometry post you will get the idea.

Here is the first chapter, it's kind of Finnegan's Wakish....but it is less channeled and more direct as it goes on:

I want to live in a sentient field, whiling away the thing that is not time, contemplating care without reason, flinging signals, frequency a blessing traversed by the meridian of several stars seeding flowers, ablossom with fragrance, spasms of plusses flooding the centrifuge, chaotic but fractal, wide turns flowing and steered by people and gravity and things.

Norwegian weeds knock on the Tolkien tower, following leaders with heads screwed crudely upon the bodies of monkeys, nice looking monkeys with smiles and teeth. A drifting with purpose ensues, a dance with destiny, a low flying secret with big ears, little lips, and festering doubts. Grizabble for a day when hojamole burrows deep, with keen eyes for darkness but blind in the noon, the hull of her ship a breasty woman with high cheekbones that can hear a siren’s call and steer herself clear.

The weather has feelings, emotions that can whip potatoes and fan eternal flames, and when duty calls, a strong man becomes a vegetable or some grain and fruit and rearranges his private Idaho, but the miracle is just around the corner, it lies in the perception, the letting go, and a certain tale creeps forth in a fudumptious manner between i and i, a strengthy unspooling of a corner turned upon that begs telling, the premonition of the paisley…nothing is sacred to hatred, and mountains tell me of their trees and eagles sit and watch, and it was good for a long time and will be again mountain said tersely but with kindness and magnanimity, as a loaf of feeding multiplied on the land and fair maidens were made by Christians while Goddesses were burned, their scent mixing with the sages that are seen by the eye of Horus and billows of themselves, tumbling from the origin of them, and back, and forth, a lovely arrangement, twixt the virgin concordance and the bastardly lust for power that exists simultaneous to hunger and it’s satiation, worlds full with emotion and gratitude, nuts and berries singing gay songs by the crackle of some cappleburn, ghosts simmering, winging latitudes flocking to somewhere, fablings lining the perimeters of boundless dichotomies, a contextual bliss in the midst of a subjective tragedy, last-calling fine leathers with the off hand remark, a whittled wood, isn’t it good, marking some sort of trail by the condor’s suggestion, fearless cowards kafling direct arrows at apples recursing in their own image, heads turn away, and the wife of William tells burros of their stubbornness, flexibility is key, an idiosyncratic normalcy, pilfering is a means to an end, a pillow for hunger’s hair to grease upon, sponging something spilt willingly and selfless…cannot a simple spiral connect heart to heart, soul to soul, but....what is me…?...me is cumbersome and old, you are better, you are construed, I am i but not me, feeble language creates the illusion and bakes the crust that encircles all breads and things.

The creek cackles and i and i have been introduced, we like the red rocks, the layered tiers of information pummeled by feathery syncopations over a cyclic and radial phasing, triumphant a bugle while cool is trumpet, stories are spun by spiders on ecstasy who splay chords between certain surfaces, hidden spindles that mingle with strands of cellular information, remembering itself it is morphogenetic.

A world view is crude to the blinking Tao, fundling blissitudes whilst sniffing powders from the cuff of the fat man’s white ruffled blouse, but the streets rumble in second gear revved, havin’ a go at it. A lastly sarcophagus is just a sneeze, a matter of levitation and Crowley, and thudded Mr. Weinhofer maced by his own hand…a Labrador Deceiver sold mud pies at the lemonade stand and turned christened snows foul by fumes of ‘77 Chevrolet exhausts. His diabolical leanings underscored the need for a shift in the perception of reality’s core. Bridged happenings amended leapt-to conclusions, withered hands sensitized a good heart, and broad similes hatched blood red symphonic splatterings ala Pollack, intelligence unbeknownst til this evening turned night.

Scarred by the pillows edge, it whirled and cocked and took aim in a boomerang’s trajectory and it’s puckered lips met the longing of the sailor, once more at peace with the sea, blessed by the salty splash and the icy tobble, a mere child at any age, emboldened by the glistening force of the Southern Cross, just a small dose of sanity in a beezlesnatch of platitude--see not a nonsense in the rain for it falls without your knowledge--your patience is a lens to the infinite, a broad vicissitude slanders the warlock, platters of entrainment a galactic necessity and quite delicious, a blaring ensnarement but a hoot nonetheless, cranial aerobics on the floss of the mental, breaking the chains like the Samsonian unshorn, caulking the windows of grand manors soon to be ignited.

A lagging qualde mutters something under the volcano’s breath, “Mass destruction is not inevitable,”…the elemental seance has a quorum, ”We tangible, we malleable too, self aware and gravity’s tool, master unwoven return to the loom,” and the thingness of big things springs from the Universal womb, not to say that way is not a way, but a means to an end, and every end is end reversed of gninnigeb, and this is something you told me long ago and I made sure to bury it shallow in the yard, and smells took to my nostrils and a mingling…closed two of my eyes for a sec, tripled every algorithm, and the inverse of adversity squared ruptured a frightened centipede and it was merciful and therapeutic to them both, even is sadness and confusion but no loss of faith.

It was a Larimer Street heist, in broad daylight, painted on pages, long scrolls in libraries and nothing that wasn’t everything pervaded the Loch Ness, glamour and modern polymers concealed something precious that a man did not know, crystalline transducers hummed lightly and special moths spontaneously loved him, it was grand…nonetheless, there was work to be done, but the lunduckles knew not what to make of it and the going was slow and tedious.

A dog with earnest features cried slightly from boredom or coo while yellow lighted park place grimaced quiet, wars were waging and kings were clad in cowboy ties and chuckling madly, it was quite the spectacle. A far flung caterwaul was not present, merely an implication, though these things take time and require, says Alfred North Whitehead, “the formality of actually occurring,” and this man was shunned for his intellect that was at first so attractive--it marred his self image and tasted like chicken—at any rate, ninety nine and another nine wiggled like an earthworm on a sunrise hook, it was a semantic equation, actually, but an exercise in dalliance not without it’s charm, if in fact charm is palpable to the plebeian, which of course it is and it isn’t, depending on the specifics of the size, structure, and textural integrity of the objectified mover of mountains or walker upon waters. It is the didact of the utterance that births the signal, the transmission, from a whirring place that spins rapidly under the skin of fingers and parquet tiles and earths in space, slyly blunt like muddy potteries orange and reddish in harsh sunlights.

A cactus with a blossom pokes fun at the bee, a marvelous sight, wound around muddy paths too beaten for independence. A mingle with the rain and rushing waters gather and things seem healthy and sane for 48 hours or less. A meander speckles the knoll, and many faceted gradient angles suggest something, and then something else altogether. They say there is information in these forms.

Pleiadians whisper the moniker of something slipped from the univibal mind, and sparse similarities belie a delicate juxtaposition of opposites and this is the grinding, the tension, the large catalyst unseen, cantankerous but equitable.

Then, a fractured teapot that was someone’s favorite, with delicate etchings and a contour that was fabulous, it held water and alive vessels photosynthesized, barking houndly at it’s own misfortune it is in pieces now and it notices, and water knows to avoid it, it grows sad and actual birds of several phylogenetic lineages predating the dinosaur swooped past laughing sardonically, teapot largely ignoring, fully engrossed in the disembodied drama, and an old hunched Chinese woman in a mothy light coat with big buttons, it was maroon and unflattering, walks past in the foreground in a slow shuffling gait.

She is muttering under her breath in Portuguese, a mantra of some sort, and a siren Dopplers into the ear’s hole of the witness, it is sad but in it’s largesse a mid-size coin flings itself onto the scene from stage left and it spins on it’s side as the camera closes in on the spin to the exclusion of the Chinese woman and the fractured teapot itself and it is quite intriguing to see it spinning, oh how it spins, a real lu-lu of a spin and someone might anticipate a cessation of the rotation and some sort of conclusion when in fact no such outcome is forthcoming.

A hare stands in the way of a bald man’s progress, just to make ends meet, and a little sonofabitch fumbles with his bowtie awkwardly, his mother tugs at his right ear and his face and the ear redden, in fact even the other ear reddened…the mother was allergic to cats and the boy had dropped his ice cream from the cone and stood there with just the cone and he looked down at the ice cream glob and it was ruined in dirt and the boy cried.

A snake surprised nobody in the grass, and a strange older fellow in a top hat smoked a pipe and complained of bunions, all of this and more for less than the cost of admission, but such is the way of the living, a wretched condition but nonetheless one of necessity and lack of alternatives.

A wharf is a cold night and moist, sea lions are present and big ropes are wrapping, there are many boats of all kinds, fishers and hobbled men with beards and some without, they applaud the morning and fall off into a dreamy dawnday snooze, imagining many things that throb and sizzle, loving around the horizon, wrapping ham hock appendages around the fruits of virgin vineyards…whores spread legs in the aftermath, their benevolence is appreciated and they song arias between duties and hold a tune surprisingly well, they won’t give in and it’s a glowing attribute.

The hairs on the heads of the minx glisten duly and it takes many kinds, while a crow caws and seems suspicious. It’s prolly not a ting anywer, but the lad in the shadows sprints forth and lunges at the thing and feathers go a flyin’ helter skelter and a holographic image of Charles Manson from 1969 is shone upon a large watermelon rind at sixty paces while Edgar Rice Burroughs swings through on a vine made of the unraveled intestine of a factory farmed meat cow and Jack from Jack-In-The-Box is impaled upon the sharp thingy on top of the Empire State Building in old pictures from the World’s Fair sometime or something.

Madison Avenue curls upon itself in a dimension known only to Salvador Dali and an edgy young actress steals something. People do piles of Columbian cocaine and eat dried apricots quickly; they drink Gerolsteiner mineral water and listen to Led Zeppelin as a goof because they like mostly electronica. One of them has blue hair and he likey the Zeppelin a lot but won’t admit it, still, the nymphomaniacal misanthrope avoids that scene and creates a different film, it is sparse but sexy, the horny headmistress wears black patent leather shoes and mad kinks ensue. The dialogue is forced and halting at times, but the sex scenes are hot and inspired.

A nun masturbates wildly. A liquor bottle crashes onto the cutting room floor and the stunned director opens another and tries to make sense of it all, it is too real, too genuine, it evokes such primal emotions that the perspiration drips from the brow of everyone and a woman wears a red sash and an antique dress and looks through cat glasses, she wears ruby red lipstick with shoes to match, she is Judy Garland, or not, but it too is a hologram.

The crowd roars it’s approval, but Garland summons Joan Crawford and they blame shift, vociferously insisting that it is the lusty throng and not they themselves that are shadowy projections, while Dante sets the sphinx ablaze, but it’s just a prop, however, the whole thing sets off the smoke detectors, and Charlie Chaplain dressed as a policeman blows a whistle and swills from a jug of moonshine and nothing really changes except the lighting angles.

On a lark, a spatially transcendent renegade twists a strand of DNA with 11 others and reworks the circuit, access complete it is a morphogenetic mutation and a species symbiosis on an energetic level.

Bluffs are called, a wang dang doodle gets pitched and it is a called strike, ‘tis a cigarette and an economy, blaring rockets red and a sophistry massly consumed, so lackluster teenagers pitch sagging tents inside of suicidal souls, blinging and death a Reaganomical equation.

Chan detects a clue. Kokopelli blinks green and a subterranean candle flickers here and there, mostly here, and it is the work of the lord to collect the sweat of the vassal. It is neither more nor less, not production hither tither the Mingus of the Sidney Bechet if you play the wrong chord. It’s a scam and a playground for the vampire, a big one at that, gargantuan, with hands and sinew nailed to hard crosses and it’s your doing, you are cared for and spiritually nurtured by a ring of sadistic pedophiles, you have no mother and you live in Plato’s cave, it is dark and you have none of the dank. You sink into loneliness and depression, and all the while small but wizened dwarves plot your resurrection. They know you, and they are on your side.

Unbeknownst to you, some beings from another quadrant stole your destiny and sold you their wars, and wares, at gunpoint, it was criminal and the heroes were all in jail or dead and the perps were eating jelly donuts and worse.

Columbian kingpins sported CIA bumper stickers and mad aliens surfed to Del Mar just in time for the 8th and feature, it was a doozey, a ten to one shot nipping the favorite at the wire and the splintered masses tore tickets while the bluebloods wore daisies, a sanguine affair, cannibals wearing blue suits and nooses made of fabric stitched together by slaves, as diamonds glistened with broken potential.

Troubled felines purred in knowing corners. Traders of things of value sighed with uncanny regularity while food chains huffed and hawed. A facet of something elegant seethed with passion way off to the side, but almost visible, and a vantage point can be found in the macro, the micro, or the nano.

A young man said, “Fuck God,” and meant it, though he apologized with an explanation.

Definitions are an odyssey…a plant knows more than we, helix the bollix, flatten the absurd and roll the dough of the morass, bolster the confidence, confide in the mother at the neglect of the holster, make the true woman new to the mange of the fawn, speak in tongues to the loungers in deadened certitude.

A picture without depth projected on a mass illusion made people and anemone sad and made drug companies large digits after symbols that rise on a graph if you chart it. It is quite the achievement, and six billion units of organic energy surrender to it dutifully and without question, sentencing all to the death of the spirit.

If a young man say “Fuck God,” there is only god and it is profane. Sacred is as sacred does, and you never know what a coconut shrimp or a shrimp po boy or a shrimp scampi is gonna get. A chocolate noun lives to define what is ineffable.

Someone lies on his back and turns his head and absorbs a morning dew upon a blade of greenness and the scent of same and his chakras rotate in bliss, lying upon the moisture naked, aware, touched by the thing that is purely good, unhurt, unbreathed by pollutants, waiting for nothing. It has happened, it occurs, it is nothing, it is the isness, it feels like heaven, and other parts of the blades of grasses grow unshy and with hearts swelling as the livening spunkles forth, approximating heaven in a fifth dimensional time signature so simple in it’s complexity, throwing patterns to the breezes and reinventing selves and others so that there is no separation. It’s a quantum double whammy camping out on the smore of Shannon’s stick, a daily tale to cramble the phrenology, suckling the pismotic tarantula, so intimidating, yet so tender and tamable, gentle and loving, a fine pet and a terror at the same time.

If he was he’s wont to tell you a ting, maybe twice or two, not to give advice but to twingle the screw and simple the ploy, lest the strunkle seem like goo, if he or her th’aught this narrative unconscious junger would applaud, philemon nods, spilling knowledge onto uncouth heads shorn by reptilian barbers fallen from fruity skies of free will’s treachery, weight upon the seesaw of the creations’ rebellion.

Survival fits the slipknot. The neck is greased and the goose is raw, waxed like the stripper’s legs, a spandex of lexicon but a veracious stalwart of shootin’ straight, not a preacher or a bore not a puppet or a whore, more a mycological spore of a symbiote recursing to the core, reversing the score.

A lisp spoke seeker took the hand of a tangled tourist and showed him a better route, it was simple and good and the deformed observer clapped with his one good hand. It was a jolly good show and the run was long and prosperous from one perspective, brief and ruinous from another, but it all come out in the wash and the cycle is almost through, it’s a koan in many slivers, each an unfolding of one or many more self similarities.

Mutations can occur when survival is at stake, long genetical phonics dancing in a morphogenetic filing. “Don’t wanna go quietly the way of the fell.” To surmise the rise a camel shrunk through a needle’s eye, a darling of a thing, really, so sweet like honey, the patience of the turtle on her very own island, Hopi-ing and rainbowed, unto dust upon nature’s return to herself.

Something shutters profoundly and reverberates, skipping like a flat rock across the pounce of the novel introduction of post history: a dormancy replaced, a feature film, a pencil thin moustache and a rosen eyebrow, two cows mooing in a spacious meadow, a swooping sparrow, the next, a bit of the kibble, a shedoobie shattered, an emperor with no clothes, the woman so strong, the love so dear, the tears so dry, the back so straight, the mud so rich, the rain so soft, the care so free, the clouds so pregnant, the mind so shared, the children so respected, the bees so humble in the bumble, the isotopes of eternity landing upon a strip of Santa’s spillage, a warm December full of bounty, a lasting impression, a new direction, a flattering double entendre, a quail soliloquizing under a rotating moon bound only by the white noise of the master’s whip crackling, a long haired trinket hung from the tree of living and silently blessed, something with extreme humility largely for it’s own sake having issued a warrant for it’s own duress…someone in pink found a chicken bone and didn’t know what to wish for, a single droplet of plopping rain rippled the spilt milk.

A hitchhiker ducked out of the rain and under an overpass in Hays, Kansas, and slept in a tiny crevice fearing rats; he wore white socks clean and new, fresh out of the bag.

The foreboding of a large event loomed in the nearness, it was collective, and tiny babies were brown and they laughed and discovered their toes, they had little folds of baby fat. They seemed content.

Taking a number, the calm dissenter whiled away the hours deflating the mechanism. A pale contrast to the big show beckoned as the scarab beetle crawled into a daydream dear to the humble. A crystal ball glistened in the sunshine’s gaze, and winking Asian girls with sleep in their eyes wore kimonos and never heard of Dizzy Dean. They ran for health in the nearby park. Rabbits were always there and sometimes seen, and people walked dogs. Moons and stars were clearly visible at night, and a rusty machete cut a clear conclusion as there was no slush in the temperate climate, none at all, not even in winter, and you could hear a perked simmering through a soiled windshield into someone’s enamel kitchen.

Houses lined the park’s perimeter, with people in there, and large geckos. The people stole from one another and smiled, it was grand and the good life but they seemed frightened of things, and of thoughts and thinking, and steeples were around and they seemed phallic and limiting to Hector, who frequented these parts in a canary yellow polo shirt with matching Bermuda shorts. He wore sandals and never attended Brown University. He kick-boxed a shadow cast by an Irish rogue’s reflection and transcended New Jersey, acquiring significant holdings in Australia while tippling good wine with the blonde Swedes of yesteryear, drinking it all in, dipping his bread in the gravies of Lincoln and beyond, a wind surfer dedicated to the good life, and monks robbed begged-for alms and none were the Buddha so they were nearly killed by a man named Sizemore, an undersized runt of a fellow with gray skin caused by chemical smoke ingestion and an overall lack of feeling, he just pulled the trigger and the monks were unharmed by the bullets but they set themselves on fire and Sizemore panicked and turned the gun on himself, but he didn’t feel a thing so he emptied the clip into his own nicotine diseased mouth but it did no good.

A black helicopter swooped by and dropped him a rope ladder. The eyes in his head flamed and his skin creaked like it was breaking and dutifully he climbed the rope ladder and disappeared into the cockpit and the chopper took off.

Meanwhile, a brilliant prodigy stood upon a soap box and waxed eloquent, but a pigeon shat upon him, and then another, and another, and he spoke nonetheless but more pigeons joined the fray until he was up to his waist in the unfortunate matter, and then the chest, but still, he continued with aplomb and he made a damned good point or two in the process until he was up to his neck, and then it was past his mouth so you couldn’t hear him anymore.

A trap door led to a dimly lit tunnel large enough to walk erect within. Some people in this situation would hear water dripping slowly, it is moist, there is grating somewhere…the tunnel winds slightly, and at a certain juncture light can be seen in the distance…

Anyone in the tunnel began to jog, and then run, toward the light, though there was no urgency and every twenty yards or so a hot dog vendor offered free dogs with kraut and ice cold cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon. (It was the same vendor at each location.)

In another compartment of a porous mind something like a damsel in distress slipped on a banana peel and skinned her knee. A lock fell from the sky and her breast held the key, so she tripped the latch and was wowed by the scent of bacon carousing with the dazed professional on the way to teach a class in pomposity.

She began to wonder if she should have opened the lock after all and twitched her nose and went to a better place. A nice small dog was there, a Jack Russell Terrier who seemed to recognize her and it made her glad. The wallpaper was made of question marks and dollar signs were illegal there. Horses rode cowboys with their balls bound tightly so that the cowboys would buck in pain and anger and the horses just loved this, they made stuffed cabbage for later and played cribbage while discussing Dresden and other atrocities, resplendent in swashbuckling attire and with suave demeanor they reshaped foreign policy while respecting the right to life and supporting the death penalty while employing illegal aliens to serve as domestic labor, sweating foamy in the noonday and laughing aloud at little inanities that only they could truly understand, such a dimple on the sphere of the Carlysle, merely the spur of a bony skull’s lock and key.

A neon reminder blinked something with its back to the ocean. A hinge-backed bench allowed one the deliciously dichotomous option to look either way, and the choice was a profound metaphor. Humpty dumped a wall and fell forward, narrowly averting a tragic ending as a feathery stork’s stash of himself buffered the landing. It was tres poetic and fouled up the works.

Simple tomcats fought city hall and fair witnesses rubber necked without giving their support, reserving judgment, perhaps until they become guilty themselves.

Wigs of powder line the dumpsters outside of Smith and Wesson’s. Many dead bodies eat the pope. Wise women with sad eyeglows sizzle and elephants keep tabs, they are afraid of mice and cry at the loss of a loved one. An elephant is the kind giant meant to smile again here soon; a teenage ‘phant wrote “love is the natural elixir” with his trunk near his parents’ grave and horrid syphilitic pirates with advanced degrees pissed disease onto and into shared circuitry, it was a mess and brave souls held the cleanser.

The dicks of the pirates became black and oozed pus, very painful, and they loved it and fucked doped-up speed whores with the stubs of these diseased dicks, then they kissed their mothers and sent flowers and wore suits and dictated terms, masters of the universe with golf shoes and things, while Tibetans meditated in India and places, seeing past illusion, wiggling free energy worms through time and space cavities, simmering non action to spawn surrender to the flow and some just watch Roseanne reruns and eat cheese, it’s a long row to hoe and a bastard’s libido on the edge of the frayed and yellowing pages of the tangible. A possible explanation skirted the topographical boundaries that defined nothing but a man’s ego, refined substance an alchemist’s commitment to respecting the purpose of life.

200,000 years ago a thing happened. Planets make passes at clouds and at gasses. Proximity makes things possible, watchers of skies predate the sandstorm and meaningful puzzles confront the oracle, finely honed pitches of piped organs cut paths through patches of pumpkins, imprints on impressionable species a simple shackle, flooding the membrane.

A puking of something sickening purges the stomach and the enzymes are secreted to aid in digestion. A twin peak pokes through the chaos and an Olympus emerges in the field, eternal characters archetyping the phantasm, disembodied forms resurrected from miracles a routine out there, in here, the water’s fine, a swan’s dive refined.

A dog looks at his bone’s reflection and drops it for another.

A story is strung between these and other lines. The thing is not the word, the patterns fractal, snoopelizing the scatapulous permutations of possibilities flung near and far.

A being blossoms from an organic unfolding of light; it becomes aware of itself and is many.

A picture of an old white man who owns land is god and draws people into existence with a Bic pen five minutes ago and they build an uncivilization on the decaying parchment.

A fantastic self-emergence eats from a star and spins and real things live in on and within her and she is Gaia, the vibal family sticks to her like electrical gluestuff.

Homilies submit to the real tale, no teller, and only one ear, something that feels. A barometer of sadness propels the springthing, machines go clank and spheres sing symphonies telling of the many and the one.

Percussions in the jungle rumble the trees and the jaguars listen to the ground and the ethers. The elders live sure with the mosses, the crickets know their name. The sweat of the atmospheric sentience kisses everything it touches at once; language is life here, and distance is a pity.

The woman of the secret whispers her salve to all who’ve paid the price to pluck her chords and wounds are healed. Fishes drink wines and vines conquer time.

It’s an acceleration beyond description creating an unlimited potential within a template of infinite possibility, pleasing like cake, a simplicity lost in the shuffle of a stacked deck but in an eon a cosmic sigh. A tan diameter replaces the need for linearity and a false sense of order.

Bright children are bored easily and do not want drugs.

”Something in the radial, please, and perhaps a hat and a scarf with that.”

A paisley perspective on the planetary malaise pickled the borscht.

Four madmen grew sane beards and groomed them well, and there were nine stupas built on thirteen reasons.

A critic axed the wrong questions, shamanically initiating a torrential dowsing that made things wet to create prismatic beatitudes upon which those whose tired eye has grown weary and sad can rest for a century or more. Blonde illusions rise from sizzling desert tars. An oasis crooks a finger beckoning.

An alley is present where back doors’ dumpsters dwell, old chicken scraps foul nostrils, city man not afraid and marvelous in stubble and resolved gait moves onward to the art in the night, pregnant on the cusp of the next step and his heart played the octave of stellar explosions, fabulous homosexuals drank eggnog with spiced rum from spiked heels.

Four and twenty blackbirds fucked with a sixpence for kicks, a troubled youth was elected mayor, and a fiddler with a lopsided cranium borrowed something African in the twilight of realism.

A spasmodic imp played Othello to perfection. Mad hounds were released, a chase ensued, and a number of people exceeding two thousand five hundred were becoming fed up. A few leaning towers had all the nachos, and skinny pyramids had nothing but soul.

The hounds were wagged by their tails but growing disobedient in the twilight of history, a broad mind a child’s plaything. Clocks fell from walls everywhere later, sands smashed glasses of hour, a pendulum fell from the domed roof, stained glasses shattered seemingly without cause and a robotic cult numbered many billions on a small but powerful thing, a big tragedy, a species wasted sadly.

People of African ancestry and others like them hold a vibration, Aryan mentalities claw at the ears and left hind quarters of mules and tangerines are thrown at a high velocity toward particular effigies by a cadre from the highlands hell bent on taking back the power. An inner rumbling accelerates the chaos. The whipping has gone too far and cut too deeply, the backs of walls are left with no more room to recede; a snarling ferocity churns in the center of something eternal within a temporal nightmare.

A top secret lynx eyes the future cooly in the semi-darkness, while the sanguine reptilians choke on their own vomit and horribly diseased semen, sucked through the cyclic straw of the fallen pulled back from whence they came, wretched and meager; for all of their enormity, a distant memory soon.