A New “Morpheme Tales” Has Come


Morpheme Tales


I Am The Antonioni Of Films

In the cream-colored apartment building at Olive and Denny, the anxious but xenophobic stagehand, skewered the actress from Tblisi on the chopping block as she chopped up cabbage and doorstops. It was as awkward fan and as anxious as anything he did in the city. He left it shortly thereafter, complaining about the flan, which always came in sideways off the sound, shot, or so he always claimed, by post-prandial clams armed with slingshots. That’s got your name on it.

In Panmunjon, ring-tailed lemurs use a 19th century screw-plate clothing press to squeeze the juice out of slacks. The juice, which is as purple as new wine or blackberry juice, but as yellow as Mountain Dew, runs down a Long Tom into a galvanized trough, along the trough and into a multi-teated glass gas bottler. The bottles are old and the glass has flowed, making the bottoms heavy and warping the light that passes through them, giving them the slightest tint of pink milk or blueberries to the juice which is a gas, the gas that they contain and which is contaminated by them and which they contaminate Tammy and Li’l Tammy Rapeseed who kept a shoebox full of five thousand dolls the size of kernels of corn kernels.

The metallic stench of slot-machine gauntlets whiten as they bleach in an old paint pan in a desert the ditch of which is windblown nudity manuals? A single glove, spray-painted silver and rubbed with iron filings, with the furtive fiddlings and fondlings of quarters suspended in a moment of terror before the dark neon tacos, as the rail bum Jan Drum stops before the syncopated updraft of the bus’s air brakes, breaking cornstalks of terror into the bikini sidecar of winkling test tube diseases in the lounges, percolates upward in the throat of Ham Toasticlier.

Drum found, acid-etched on the back of a vandalized school crossing sign, and written in the language of pants, formed of hundreds of abandoned slacks, slick with the filth of passers-by, a list of secret truths, which he memorized and formed the basis of a school of thought that influenced a generation, from garbage truck drivers to secretaries of the treasury to archaeologists who specialized in paleo-agricultural studies in the Near East.

  • Ubuntu is a block of wood tied to a bamboo pole which savages whirled about their heads to play “I Believe in Miracles,” a bullroarer of tubules that called down rain.
  • Chrome force-extrudes a fudge-like substance tainted with cherry around which light bends to serve as wheel-locks on Athabascan chariots of the gods.
  • Mentos are node computers running Salvator Mundi protocols of profound derivations in the hammersmiths of cockles.
  • Raceface’s API is the same as a UPS or APB out on scrambles, that toasts and scrabbles at several harmonious toad cushions.
  • Force-ported by Scrum Wedgington, the scarce chocolate OS of epiphanies, a piano doctor where it intersects with argumentative reality in a cloud compartment bubbling up the ruby channel, which is a kind of scanner or something.

Then he saw a boob and galloped into a fruit stand and never felt the clammy hands of robot trance dancers again.

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