ismadgioips

 

Yes, let’s meet at the Blackbird. What can I say, the heart is a lonely hunter, Rachel said to Carlson baby I cannot stand the heat in the kitsch outside so I stay here in the beauty of the lilies where the fun art dopes and deeper women roam the battleground of upuma at breakfast and say to one another what it is they want but the place should always just do what it wants and maybe have the hot sauce here the sauce hot there and that’s better than a brand you have to keep still and change like a stutter, though the drinks could be drunk in porcelain and the tubas of the air conditioning tuned down, music of many though not just locals lovingly selected on the radio of souls however that can be done, whatever box of magic or single person stage quietly apprised whatever that means for you but minus the hitherto obligatory amp. Voices are supreme lovers, make them sing and sound like the eponymous anonymous Phoebe Sitwell but asynchronous to her speech of dole, in other words no de-alcoholized whine. Just sing the way you sing and make that be your skimpy naturalistic bed. No blanket no sheet just you on a hot summer night and maybe a dream lover medium rare. eat.

Dolda Meier. wept when she had to be respelled. That was when the child said something like she had never seen a flower. And what of Gaza dear, she said. Just a parable I heard. At the blackbird. From the blackbird. Actually a murmuration of the damned. Free us from Palestine. Get this over. In other words leaders piss off. follow that with the negative emphatic superlative of something you don’t fucking deserve, which is a turd in a bucket for breakfast rare. Followed by a full de-vesting. Followed by the naked Emperor march. Followed by a instiquick listening to entreaties followed by a treaty. Followed by fade out for you and you adieu mein asshairs. Thin men. Cranky men. Dork men, and you are almost all of you men, a vast asshole discredit to your sex. With ears that wank their own approval of themselves hourly. Piss off. Get some magic. Some dooby doo. The smallest bit of it could make the change happen.

To those about to lack keys at Monsanto: find another job quick because something really recent and conversant is happening and the golf courses seem to have run their course and the green is a colloquy of Erasmus titled a fool is a fool without balls, and nobody wants their sand because it’s an irrational unspooling particulate negative of Joyce the Dead, waking up early for cyanide in its coffee, not the sand the Man. It's not that the game is bad, just that it's full of perfectly reversible side effects and the companies that make them. Some monsters play the lute in order to pretend they’re not. And I’ve seen monsters. I know what they’re singing about.

 Shakespeare twice used monster as a verb. I bet it’s relevant both places and yes I'm talking about Shakespeare our friend plus yours plus just himself driving you and possibly me if you're my wife, in a cool Westfalia van where in back you can sit facing and talk (in back) or just get down to business I believe in the way back, Shakespeare driving singing us shall I compare thee to a summers day once autumn has begun well why not?  Draw the van curtain again. The earth is a human. Treat it like your aunt who makes you good cookies. And seriously does she put das roundup in yours? Or in any way lessen the blackbird in you? And stop calling her mother, or if you want to fine, or, actually do. 

She is in a bit of a sitch though. We can do way better by thinking of thought for once and putting down the guns of all sorts and warts and instead doing the deeds of love that charm her like walking on her grass in bare feet and dewing the same elsewhere in metaphorical chambers not so metaphorical. Kappee said the coolies at the railway stations of my youth. Or wait it wasn't the coolies, no they were the guys in jeans and tees right, or no wait they wore white beautiful white like hard-working angels. They carried on their heads the heavy of cool, partly largely because what they wore was simple and beautiful and theirs. I wonder if traditional clothes could spread like germs where they're from again. Which means seed too. Wheat germ. spread it, mix it in. Give your culture body and nutriment and zeal. Eat the food of the the place you are. And if you don't know what that is, make it fucking up (fucking used here for joyful emphasis). Say "this where this is, I made it here. Hey Mom you want to try some? I made it myself." 

I know this has been said before, but the truth is simply the future. Now, if you see the future and don’t like it, well begin again at your ass, and stop sitting down, unless you like to. Truly yours, Zelda Bean.