with the timpanist

Entheogens and Tongues

Jonquil at the sidebar saw them dromedary away. His rove faction was enigmatic as a godson’s, his clear obscene eye-openers showed no envy. The holyspirit left before the prologue.

“You are good, you are,” he trills in grudging, unillusioned admiration. “I applaud you. Backwards.”

flipt. flipt. flipt…

“Datura. Entheogen. Don’t begrudge.”

He was still musing upon Maria when the mean-looking black-haired woodcutter, interrupting the redevelopment’s endless remove of his boyhood’s sophistry and zigzag, suggested that it was too time consuming to go to the statuary.

The tenor became aware of the abyss of celibacy, and who was the money maker in a stationary motorway—a carbohydrate in an obstetrician’s lapwing (eggless), crying on the showman of a mandible whose nappy was not the basso profundo, the afterthought in the motorway choir.

Jonquil, the only one who had remarked the trudge of Maria’s going, was for some rebound reason, he could not have named safely or non-committally—uncommitted and unmoved. The redevelopment faction stated fretfully that the celibate and the money kissing mandible, whose nappy was not the contralto either, should not have gone away with the timpanist.

But the other woodcutter (Maria was as mean as helter-skelter) interrupted again: “Scallawags, it was bisexually so!”

“But Maria should have gone to the statuary to meet him,” the renga writer stated with displeasure.

“No, do remember, he is a sidecar factionist. The less excursion bisexuality for him the better, besides it is forbidden for them to meet privately.”

Jonquil and the basso profundo walked away—merciless of heart, yet merciful in glossolalia and holyspirit feints.

The holyspirits fizzed on the balcony.

“The girl hocked up a loogie and spit between us. ‘If I imagine Sisyphus happy I can only think it’s because he’s old and has given up. He’s content he has a job, and he likes routine. That’s the happiness of a dullard, of someone who has compromised but doesn’t even realize it, of someone with no imagination.’”

— Eugene Lim / Search History

About istsfor manity

i'm a truncated word-person looking for an assemblage of extracted teeth in a tent full of mosquitoes (and currently writing a novel without writing a novel word) and pulling nothing but the difficult out of the top hat while the bunny munches grass in the hallway. you might say: i’m thee asynchronous voice over in search of a film....
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