TODAY IN
OUR LITTLE WORLD
Open letter to Pals and Friends,
FROM: your gentle, and "formal" Shalo P; formally informal, NAHMEAN?
The expanding literary branch of Television For Ghosts is somewhat steadily gaining red fizzy steam.
At first, all we thought it would take was some firm encouragement and strong coffee with our collaborators to obtain the sort of intellectual synergy that could, hopefully, follow through into something worth stimulating the senses endlessly with smarty quandries, wry witticism, and moral ambiguities laid transparently, like a clever bridge between filantropic ogres with the audience as river, coming away filthy rich. But when the odds grew irreconcilably steep - not one would have guessed that all it takes is a swift swing from a menacing spiky wooden mace on a rusty bike-chain.
It revved up the menace and generally pepped up the room with its clangly chorus striking the walls while I rolled down the hallways doing the Fluorescent Shockwave, chipping the potted succulents with cloppy clash, and eventually landing on the back desk with a rock-all-night thud.
A metal part ricocheted off the old studio coffee maker near K's Corner (more of nook, really).
I left it lodged in the drywall by the stairs for good measure.
SO GO AHEAD AND ENJOY
a morsel of love from one of the more stranger departments of our Baroque Post-Internet Mystery League.
PLEEZ
Allow the vernacular of our sensual endeavors, peppered with added dimension, play clever cat and canary games in this cradle / coal mine of the inter-web.
(I hope you find some light on your search along the way, nonetheless.)
Straight-up Rhetorically unposed, but speculatively en amour'd with rewriting the book on intellectual inquiry:
What is a magazine?
What exactly is a dream?
What exactly is a joke?
"Bare it."
"Don't just look at it. Eat it."
(last two left on a lark, on its swing, near a branch.)
ANYHOO
we're overall enthralled in purposefully languishing in all fiery tongues the naked eye doth perversely recall, and from the nude mind do we find solace and embrace in caresses of clever and kind souls.
we're overall enthralled in purposefully languishing in all fiery tongues the naked eye doth perversely recall, and from the nude mind do we find solace and embrace in caresses of clever and kind souls.
love,
PLUS
A QUICK NOTE.
BB is off to make her best in life; on her own, and we congratulate her for the aspiration to skin the face off the world and wear it like a mask.
She's taking a break before she's back to break all our faces in a row with that ole' sledge hammer in her paws, sez SHE.
Her efforts in the "articles" below are at best, fabulously nebulous and meekly vague, like a Beethoven sonata played by fudge-dipped chihuahuas - a subtle melody gnawed on by wild rats with ruby rouge eyes.
Notwithstanding, The Youth was an utterly eternal blessing - until the animals started to shudder in her company with the eventual precipitating reports of neighbors panicking in her presence taking preference over her usual weekly duties, in essence.
After all, her resume described The Faun as "a young women emerging from the carnage of a beechcraft bonanza crash-landed in the crusty cornfields of calamities' caress". She'd state this aloud every so often as well, always coming out in a windy lustful drawl, moaning out like some ancient fuming Japanese Devil (although mostly unbeknownst to most That Kind Light doth shone def Onibaba, tenderly 'neath her snuff milky smoke murky ostrich egg off-white oyster-sized pink pill-box-hat exterior, and by that; when a young pillar of fire spoke: oh by G why N - it's BB's deep awesome truths)!
She left with arms outstretched - hands making double-dosed peace signs...
FROM THE DESK OF BB :
"My name is BB and I approved this message!"
Well, the message is love, and the candidate is sympathetic to harsh student loans.
Before cleaning out her desk we found a little note to DD in a tin with a confederate flag scratched off its top.
The note read:
"(illegible) ...didn't douse a dank doobage deed, smoking poorly burning pre-roll before the SFMOMA.
The wages of sin being cinders for any fellah making fly on the by and by, instead of eh'vry day like Nate Dogg, per se.
The professionals party all the time, sez never them that live nay-say."
AND THEN SHE WAS GONE.
We love her and wish her the best on whatever massacre she's planning. We are Charlie Hebdo, in some obscene sense, and that could really boost numbers with some prime-time publicity, as long as she just sorta wings the boss during her spree.
See you in the funny papers (ours, preferably).
P.S. HINT HINT - GAMES FOR MAY 2016 is gonna be a quiet one. It'll still be totally totally "madness flipped".
(if not the sort alluding to the fabulously dementia-null, then mayhaps fabster rebuttlin' quarrels of straight shootin' self-denial).
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