Proper Nuggets

I am the arbiter of proper nuggets. I extend my arms to the many “-isms” in the reams of cathexis.
I work the spoons as necessary, sooner the hoist than the barbecue grill. I muzzle all cataclysmic trajectories in wriggling fees before what I call the three “c”s — concatenation, confinement, and colostomy colostrums — imagine the impingements on your digestive tract. Ten seconds now conferred to you to picture said fiasco . . . (don’t freeze-up!)

Nowhere is this more apparent than in 113 ashes created in Hiawassee — go find yourself a pickaxe. The convent of seven wobbles skitters out of control. Its nineteen previous jackdaw stops preambled by the chauffeur, his bristle out of whack — his victuals out of contrivances.

Dada is as Dada does. Is that a budgie, a bugle, or a bulge?

Take a Surrealist breather, accompanied by a suitably extravagant buttery butterfly caught inside the conspiracy of clockworks.

See how that works for you.

Then ask yourself: is this brown?

What I’m Reading:

Overhead there are vultures. Dry birds with sharp eyes. They tilt their bald heads to watch my passage. Hold their tongues.

— Anne de Marcken / It Lasts Forever and Then It’s Over