The Stall Dwellers

A remarkable, if sadly overlooked, fellow (himself a Hustle Job) planking his own thoroughfares to eternity. An equally troubled magpie (beautifully played by the ghost of Mrs. Noir) flops into seclusion for a jest muzzle — a nuzzle of paranoia and pap.

Anarchy leads-off in the pipe room and castor oil repository. Who said what about: What price bananas?  This price, this price, man! Get a hold of yourself and temporize, and in due course do nothing. Get yourself a room and a swagger-stick — only to discover that this place is as miserable a place as any other. 

Take a plane to Greenland, check the weather forecast in Nigeria, take the slow boat to Caracas. Cock-robin has scrammed! 

What the hell are we doing?! Get yourself some chicken soup for the proles! Our collective souls are the life-blood of stall dwellers ensconced in the fibers of the Glory Hole Wall. 

The carpenter and cooper are out on call — feasting on maggots and soiled finery. Even Noam ain’t pure anymore! 

Pass me the purgative. I’m dyspeptic and sore.

Get me  Niz – nil – imbo on the horn!

What I’m Reading:

… Summer is in bones.
Cock-robin’s at Caracas.
Make o, make o, make o,
Oto – otu – bre.

And the rude leaves fall.
The rain falls. The sky
Falls and lies with worms.
The street lamps

Are those that have been hanged.
Dangling in an illogical
To and to and fro
Fro Niz – nil – imbo.

— Wallace Stevens / “Metamorphosis”