Ralfshaus

So that means that Larry’s gettin’ a new part for his Corvette. The plantain grinders might’ev come while Octo bewailed punk rum crummies. He had a terrible case of erythroblastosis. Carshbarger’s oily, fetid astrolabe, a green pinwheel of screams and 3 by 5 foolscap bloodbusket hankwelding shithooks the anaesthesiologist’s wife’s stupid secret in the bedroom drawer the pine tree already rotten on its side in the unknowable forest where nobody went to trod the platinum footpaths to the big pink tubular Tuesday execrescences, floodgates for flagons of flim-flam pantywaist ass-lickers and broadbill gagwagglers fraught with brown brick oozers gone grey with oglers and boozers all on a dungheap reflected in an aspirin bottle held under a glass table in a restaurant where all the real beautiful women were sitting alone and wiggling and kicking their legs and smoking cigarettes and salivating tyranny and respiring sensual, spinal witchcraft, winding coffee fired desie with balmy, foggy daydreams. From a distance, in the swamp after the hashish and chocolate, laying face down on the tattered, torn, black and mildewed cot in the torpor and froggy thuggy heat and muggy aethers, they seemed less important. Moscow called us weekly, but we didn’t go. Kiss my glycerine helmet, Oscar, or we’ll have to submit to the fireball. The torque was ballistic, cried little Larry Pinsler. Hitch. Vim. Dite. Peque-peque. Ted. Teak. Tanky. Tie-die. Toxic cocksucker for the licorice man. Anguished, sodden breadstick laying on blood-ridden bedsheet of Nightmare Sue, waitress-executioner in the Diner of Death, six blocks south of Arny’s house, by the moor of gory numbskull and cheese daggers, hushed furniture cudgles of practicality, vanquished dealers. This was the hope of their generation. An anacronistic trundle-bed think tank, backwater arcade of mustard modalities, through orange three- holers, belly flops, hueristic legumes. The umbrella of desire, detached allegory pylon, EVIL. Let me remind you again. Certain peoples wearing resonant silver bowls on their heads, albumen the scurries, we saw. A blank blue sheet of mylar, about 19 feet long, with scratches and a message: Jerry is stinky. Calorific tall buildings, wind up tropical fruits, pin point the time when you nearly came to before. That summer Sunday in May. The juvenalia pirates. Is Barry back here? The wooden wagons came by again, carrying more of them. I saw a number of large sticks protruding from the greenish mass and there were shrieks and pinch snipers, but gaggling mortals too.