I can find nothing to mock in a tale told from the heart. I find no reason to poke at words strung as a fine craftsman strings pearls - tight, knotted along strong silken cord. I love a well-wrought infusion of dialect, where, in reading, one can hear the words as though spoken. Tamarlane, born to mock the overwrought, the pompous, falls mute.
The risk is Tamarlane himself may be rightly targeted; he so loves himself and the magic of grand, overarching concepts, with metaphor an overstuffed sausage, ready to split.
Still: it's all a game.
The need to be seen is precisely the same thing as the need not to be ignored, is precisely the same thing as being considered important to whatever cause is hot. Which, then, is more appropriate when compiling words filled with import and, by their archness, attempts at seeming erudition? Is it to slide lofty words together with sly, obfuscatory references, or rather to strive for clarity?
These writing exercises – for that is what they are – serve to expose a self-love that Narcissus himself would turn from in shame.
Yours truly is not immune.
Should one desire a compendium of disparate poetical phrases, one might peruse the annals contained within this forum, for truly where else might one encounter a run-on that collects "collusion," "day-dogged" and "stippled light as a fleeting kiss to posterity" (this latter so rich as to produce flatus prior to consumption) while eschewing punctuation?
Else the usefulness of applying Elmer’s to "hope redressed as a suicide note," leaving it carelessly atop "roudy ride on the gravel roads near nowhere" is lost.
One cannot help but wonder what tug the proud queen awaits as she sits.
Ah, the rabble rouser, the strident child born too late for granny dresses and beaded headbands, yet filled with need to signal masses. Alarming words, the child speaks of revolution, rallies herself alone to the suggestion that a weak and foppish government must bear the brunt of her ire. Alas, her words are slack, akin to an old man’s penis, because the barbs she hoped to hone are made in Chinese factories and her aim is untrue. The target ought not be the paper tiger and its drones; look instead to the ones propping up the gilded throne.
A grimoire ought contain words of magic. An allusion to a
grimoire ought in fact merely evoke, but not mention, a book of magic. Magic need not form the basis of the allusion
at all, so "half truth" is an irrelevancy.Life’s journey for the
poor may not be an upward trajectory. It can be a grim hanging-on, a
simple trudging from one breath to the next. Nor need it contain a class
struggle. I comprehend the disparities and anger to which you truly allude and note
that logical progression of thought has slipped from your grasp.
Cheat the 100Word system avoiding the object of the game by objectifying systemic cheating and plopping homonyms and root-symmetrical words in crazy fetish infested gouts of blasted textuality thereby ensuring our fetid festive infected ids have embraced the complexity of its simplicity and simply scanning print causes asymmetrical diabolical befuddlement that shoves its way within the squishy gaps amid the slimy recesses of our yogurt like minds, no immunity, no remorse, mindless and meaningless, ah, but still we postulate, finding facilitation and replenishment yet no respite, nor reprieve from the spreadsheets of te latest popular god of the week.
A sense of entitlement, that we are owed by dint of being human a time to call our own, is what drives our day-to-day dramas. When required to work during a "weekend" dashes expecations of relaxation and fun. The truth is that we are slaves to our habits. We incur expenses, thus have bills to pay, thus need a job that my require us to work when we least wish to. But you had fun sweating at the wedding! You danced. Even with that lure, you took responsibility, you went to work, and you should feel pride.
The elevator reached the bottom, the doors rattled open. The women exited first and, predictably, turned toward the garage. Bill felt rage welling inside. He knew how this would go. They would walk slowly, conversing, oblivious. He would be stuck behind them. He, Bill Blue, the man, would be following two chattering women into the fucking parking garage."Fuck you!" He said to himself. He turned left as they turned right.The round woman looked back at him.He had said it aloud. He didn't realize he had said it aloud.The black woman looked at her friend.
Thunk."Gonna be a long wait," he thought as he reached into the vending machine for the candybar. "Christ, they'll be standing around out there in the parking lot forever before they finally get moving!" He could leave. But not if they'd parked near him. They'd see him. He sat at a table in the small breakroom, staring unseeingly out the streaked windows, picking at the dried smear of mustard in front of him. "Damn. Should've left at quitting time. Damn. Fucked up again. Shit!" Whrrrr.Behind him, the machine ate another dollar bill.
One. Yes, that's the real deal, the real thing, the left ticket out of reach being wrong on the fly, being the forever fuckup, the raunchy, rigless, fun bag designer, the big main dick after work. Where there's a feeling, there's the following; we do it when the wills amass for something sordid to be done to the visitors when it's clear they're not going to pay their bill on time or ever again. It's the time to take the cake, do the hottest thing imaginable, and yes, sweet Charity, you can pop the balloon when we are done. Deal?