the azure tube fell sideways through a ferocious puff of meringue, when all of a sudden an animal, partz panther tiles deer, wound across the field of view while tilting the planet’s zoney, tilting time hither and there, communicant through an orbiting watch, well dos o mas, such that a riff aultered and finnily rurfled thyme, just to show it curd be dune.
the view teetered sweet.
I have a tale to tell. We return comprehensibly to the method of learnery then in that place. It’s like how wines taste differently in different countries. You know. It was marked, the city was funded on merchantry. Sailing, trading, it went around the pheasanted world. They had an empire, a kingdom, a clump of tents.
Lastly, the Mädchen hüpfed oup the gangweg. Itäs a conventional cognate, ha leap auf troof.
The city awoke in the morning and batted at night. All the people loved peacocks and pheasants and chacha. Eww, I wish I knew. Whish he wept. Wishing in the tea, would zou like. The music made it most of hall. I meant it as a cognato. This is how I meant it. Parolha. Sit down in your cell and cry for Rusty. I may hear you. It’s not a worry. It will be fine. I have these nice feelings you see, for you. I listen to what your tale means to ye.
I was meant for you.
You were meant for me, is what he said.
Yellow petals flipped slowly over, down through the night, along the lane. Higher, leaves fluttered. Nice summer smells slipped along as they went in the carriage. It is a trip. The sweetness of a brook flew to their right, through trees in the moon. It was a gentle lane. It’s this fine tunnel, flurrying away in the evening. We can talk. That’s the thing. You can slip right by the thing. You need to see when you leave.
Now the world hereabouts, it stands to reason a little filately, putt with caliphers and a fezant riding past the bike you kin (conkle wheeze the children volaring beckon firth, wound about like a language, fango, ranging, clang, whanging, ouef-ah, barca hey ind ho, ducks and ellerdown rolla) which winderingly lassie cadute the three candescent stones for finding the long ark home (breve) (cugino,: mi fa pensar, si se c’è una parola esistente ch’è pìu caricata; come una junk swaiglando, chi sono quests cugine, se permette l’indiscrezione, mi spiace ma dai, chi sono cugini?) fur whish fur to say ya kanna choose on a stir abouf cause yare dunna need em hare, tank to pay santy on the dashboard if the ship’s lards had one a them shining scintillionists fare peepin back at the stars auf, and real saints there. There’s way. You will find it. There calls a serpent, there calls a sea, lurking at angry crashing rocks casting foaming furling angry balls, in cracking cadent welkin.
We went sailing, luffing auf the segls hand ginging. Veering lichen stellarken whide whushh, a first stop, three stones, west to Bergamo. Harlequin smiles, commedia dell’arte miles, Colleani piles, che palle! The best thing, darling, that could have happened was this trip. I felt it and you see? sometimes I’m not always wrong. Then there was the best thing that could have happened. Wind called our way and swished us away east shifting like mongeese through our fence of cousins. We ate oranges.
Waft we heard in the crotchetied wibbings high. Listen to the wavelets.
Night rolled in from the schrödingered scales of the gulf. Misty Ache.
These are the sound of it. You hear a cradle waging, barkrolling.
I recall a triplet of singers, hit record. Warn’t they dulcy, gay, our there in night? Mond or luna, sumware, anyway not the world, we were held swaying in a stork’s beak in fougdrizzle, naiv and sentimental, linky derriere chi, waifs and pertycicles, breathing cygnicities, rootbeer fizzicities, electomagnetochippen intimating like the spark of a lucecasa on wilderpunkten pampasklippen, lonely, desolate, yet guiding direction the chippen voorwards end uffa, compass – smash left twirgle destral and klarp ! then thin size journalying far wares tradenrouten inclusing reflection, out there in tomorrow’s morning fog, zumming the thing, the orbserver med iterative leuchtenquellen.
Keep the three things in mind studying reflection, that’s sailing. Seeking colors in the night on undulating sea, that’s we. Cause it’s always weaving, lift to the right next in yurt direction. These instruments keep yakking away. Flat lands give way slewly to spicy lifty. It’s still night yet we can tell. We have a tale to tell. S’marvelous. Hic trinkly champayne. Keptin, yare trinkin’!
It’s the dialing hectic. Things are just crazy these days. Take my fön. It’s clearing the nightie. Kin ye feel it? Left and right, and forwaerts and the delight that newn kin find us here. You can’t.
And they certainly dunna knew us where we’re headin’. Weighing on splicing prow in the nackt. Hand me an arancia. I’m eating from my destination. Just, we’re going to break past the circle. Fwush, swailng yonder wheey.
Wending beyond the knewn wereld, we bekämm immature, yes, I guess, naïve. You’re one side er t’ether, yet they kinna find ye.
We’re teaching colors in the night. Threw this dart at this presize target and missit.
Zuhuus hollered, swinging high. The stars shine the way.
Dragoning his draped messwreck from the sandy knell, the voyageur hauled his sorry ass to a kitchen stool, one of few arrayed aboot a thick maple center mesa beneath exploded copper pots and things, while the visiting artist splayed French winders, ahoy, skyblue hey.
Skypictorially, with a narwally sour, certennially abrading (barnacles and windlass, slap me surly!) visage, lurking yet arktive, plowplying her serious bow, the schoolpedtress rigamaroled him, ottering steamy sweetwater into a fancy plungepot, missing seurely a carved face topknow, or a totem, slewly, auguring, till purlap the anchor clanged in whalekling into seamud.
Purred the caffe she proximly did, adding lacticky, sweet curls of mermaid hair, murmuring in, while murmuring uut zings like curs and hummers, past winders, uhh plus a barca, reary.
Thank you, I say, mermaid. I felt like a tympani tingle. Why did I feel a fish depositing me hyarh? Twar dare massen gentle. Your hair is aury. New I gnaw. Leminy touch the snare of your finny finfin. Did we really get hereBreathe the salzy, yen. Shake my chin, way then in. This dizzyfunction is wankeling and florious. Tere these lines I’m loogying at, there so cool! Fire and phosfor, zagging like city rabbits, making the same bizarre and invisible pitch noises, pfing they hit something and sparks ferkle selvagily, erfer next they instantly recooing their bizukiness, ferware I guess, they’re not lines, not always. You really get uhu quick they wing.
Yet innenmitten tutty the glee of singing and fun, I feel bedrift. I steered into a mirror and glimpsed the illusion, yikey. Enter tutti the whilen you feel completely very fairy confortabel. It’s like the grandest, nicest barca lounjer efeu. Lapping wassers, tinkling jazz bands, tables with white linens and a martini, vermouth like mango bluten, the breath, the breath of this air finnegening hunnem mint in clouds.
Abba, zumting bee stiching innen minen seiten, wehing, otter ding needling meen zhin. Barca arca, friendly hund, you can say hi. I went to Woodstock. I finded the ticket inne mein pukhet. Darfur I kennen de vergangen went, high I.
Did I drink? Harkey, the drums of rums swirled beneath gladiator belts and the lactical way splashed like lunical nixony fun. Suspect the bing taint ufer, ninny weight whey. Ser est este mailand, matter equals mc query, click, splash in my nostril, sneeze in the sand like silk. Youch, I’m lying here in autre dingen auk. Hut de – seems ter be driftweed and sea holzy. Silken strands, far green lichen the curler the inverse of particles the upperside of Mars, caress my cheek. Driftpieces puke my neck. Consider this. She’s left. Presicely, she willn’y return. Herk, my stomach hurts from the drink. I liked the champagne. It came with toast. Tiny bubbles twiller vers le ceil, then they continue, higher, in de nuveles, lemon and chalk. My head feilt clear, I wish I could move bitter. It’s slew Harky. Witter these sheets? It’s fluttery’n I hear the flapping, the tuning.
I feel like an idiot. It’s timing, and the utter lack of connection with what popular people navigate. I’m crashed here in flotsam and jetsons, I have trouble rising, lifting. Still these billowing sheets make it better, yarh. If I could just – there, a view, that’s it.
Silt it’s hazy, sand lilting. I hear a tropical bird, the fronds swishing. Green trickles around me, probably the leftover particles and waves. I wake and think.
The waves of water riffled, in cocusnuts wind quinty.
Windows wide, that’s everything. Sun ripples in, combined with air and sandsaltair and the blue, powdergreenblue of this sand.
(From Les Anneés, Emilie 2)
Zeepferd pflaschen. Qualchejoes hinging voom ze pfboumen. Kitsching sand frownfrondendesert. Fischenpalmen zlindering vonlichten uffacollina, treepalls jougling lichee eisencremen landa cometienne tell Arty, hours licking hoh, schlangenschlinging in golf palle, chuggling libertines, fraternitay, zumma prowling zeepferdy, zunnenpflaschen hwah, una jolla splarkling wilderly. Hitzehissen, prowloplappy. We prawl the sea seeking exity. Lassie askyy en riddance, clairelune? Shooh, fang! Kalmenmaintainenwaxenmensaje, coot. Whasah. En delphinen flipskis a vanty yew, couscous fliing, mentory Muufii y Baabsii winken jiini quinically junycitron jollajolla bham inner yews, kuck ur junkyacht, bingles limmoning glabaurally bhang waifing foonenreling. How, nun! Well, nertazackally. BaabsMuufiiyiaiai sonnen paw de dew mitten splarklygale ore cougar clause! Ark tongue! Eyes axe yew. Halt and veer for jiini’s tonic, crispenplusultra hyah limn in, lull showed booteus maximus, er, goman, a vaunty catch, slurp, orca barca, bye girls. Meerage. Zeepferdensklaschen, waken glurble hinten. Calmen, watermillionen buys meravillyews Farbenlehren im Westen. See tu yclept millionen, ardours kannabis in arrears. Lemonpalla pfluff in merchantshippencoda. Time fir a beer, yew. Paw a jiini tunic yet tasty. Acanty mi here uffa mizzenmasty.
Fir heven cognosed han inversemint banker dinna rue? Ubiquitonus! Herk, lefsa launchen. Zingen.
(From Les Années)
Australian King of Thule
- Walla walla. Weng wokehe. Wezop?”
- Zenarriv. Nekskapai? Ge gaaw.
- Zee zee.
It’s burnished honey moon fell frat upon the wicker freight. Die knockknee high outchee jum joors. Hess seen it toochee. Toochee sens. Too Rai!
“Bounza streech Boonzi sighta knoknee.
Trews haych a jim wayz. Nose jokz!”
Well eyes nehbuk cud nehbuk seedz souch! Id nehbuk!
“Too Rai! Ayes a goungsa jacka wookaloung knoeckedzknees bing! Atsa
Bedda bubba bites. Teumblin’ jensa doust. Ebry bongsa chowdern! Ebry bongs kips carryin rides. A ding dong daze.
“Koora, koora, maidzie! Koopahpoorah chimchee knockawout. Zo – ides rangsa roo arks backsafish bocsi. Ebra bongsa roof! Enna right right way. Ebla noze daze, mao.”
Meekah tingtay poor meeh! Sen, maidzie, meekah tontoh!
“Hide-a hobo Kneut!”
(Por da bye-bye, mouche a silasons pertalains. Essa quonbains longbines. Hadda boxtour, oh, too! Tuchtah bloozy, suzy fine hambone! Talkahwile. Sadie komentalers all the Ankhers.)
Maycan sen bar-bar noof choonigh.
“Yah, attsa rai mouch toucan! Furcha newnah rai.”
Pergumums amee par turbots mee. Aydza rai. Yudza rai?
“Aydza rai. Essa favlooze. Tarksa mouche.”
Thura: matzi-mild! Hai kenna hai!
“Hqwilla qvale bingbong might! Adzoor splash.”
Meekah tingtay kwai. Adza foss la tour ebla bongza ebry, wadh!”
Adza sen enn kring-bongza Thule;
Edza jokza mouche foss la tour spool.
Adza sen suzy fine men.
Adza enn kring-bongza Thule sen.
Por da bye-wye,
Adza mouche rai.
Adza rai fine-mai mouche toucan,
Por da rai longbines kring bye.
Walkabeung glar; dadza fini. Koorah!
(Language identified in other texts, to have been and to come.)
I’m sitting, have I mentioned, hoop hare on Betelgeuse. Wolken Arundel: looking’, what a view. Whew, hi up hare. Whirlin’, yawn, whish. I’m cracklin’ branches, hew foox. Look atatter way, froo all the rees and dust. It’s sow fur.
(Thinking about elections, and how if someone is sitting at Sirius and watching us, and sees our drama and wars, in eight year cycles, and we’re watching them, the time passes and we naturally see old things, and I was wondering if the actuality crossed paths somewhere, like fish. Wrote the Election song, recorded at Wild Sound studios with Matthew Zimmermann and Benny Weinbeck.)