FS is for FLY-STYLE: Free writing in 09

It feels way too long since i just sang. After all, fly should be droppin’ it, and them, like 10 ton chickens out of a hercules, or a few cows off a bridge. Introductions are over, honeymoon is up. Lights on, sound check and all the practice comes back, payback, playback for recording activity. GODISTURBER? what is it, two people compressed into a word? Godisturber, or durber…do you think she heard you? disturbance of the wave, dance of the dust mite, flows might get dusted. No turning back just around, on rotation, a duty, to turn, to change the dials, and cherish hilaritas and fun, tracing smiles for miles a day.

The face of type under cosmetic review by the doctor, boots polished with ink, tread milling the pressure onto the street – imprints – impressions left, but what is right to write tonight, what is left to sift and lift? escalator and calculator combined to take a square root back to minus one. Disturbance of writing, what is it. Patterm, gramar and speech like jagged rocks in the tongues road. Surprises wrapped around every lampost, posted light and posted time awaiting your every stirring. Steering sentences into places you hope will alight faces, grace the next sentence and free the meaning, with each word and dust mite movement, with each undulation and flow, comes and goes me. Me the other disturber, aiming for anchorage and honest translation of visions, a package for chu, a package of elongated verbage. Age retraced in mind and beauty, retraced thought replaced with a new sporting chance. New free sentences to enhance the dance of particle wave waltz and end. To stop and go on amber and direct traffic into terrific. Speed out of the middle lane and cruise above the assfault altogether. Pulling clouds down and putting new sky up via skype. Sky up and blue in the air, up from the aluminium roads and factory canavas floor into the skylights, the last remaining green belt wrapped around Britain’s naked body. A horse-race of letters, a jockey of jabberwockey, keys two, the stable. We are for balance. Equation and mathematical system. We are measuring courses for Ostriches, by the feather weight. Heart of solid steel, no, of gold.

http://player.soundcloud.com/player.swf?url=http%3A%2F%2Fsoundcloud.com%2Fflyagaric23%2Fshannanigums-wave-book-iii& Shannanigums Wave Book III Chapter 11 Page 67. by flyagaric23

A heart of rock-stone? a heart full of blood and pumps, a heart of pulses and waltzes with riddim. Heart and head laid down snug. Head and heart beating, bleeding words that got sentenced. Alphabetty shackled the soul aboard to the jetty, waves mirrored my close shave with sea foam. Phone home and away i went, travelling the telegraph paths, to find sense in this monologue leading to the bog. Cogs and wheels within’ circles, bones of past people’s particulars appear as lentickle-your-ears through lenses of grit. No moaning or more angry man’s madness in word, the way to an angry mad world, the new colour and contour leads the wire forrest freakeys out to new worlds, inhabiting spaces and places that hasty abrupt neophobes fail to adapt to. Your way and paths and roads and noodle highways are the ways, must write them out, write them way out, off -if possible. Write them off and turn them on, drop them out and dial her up, boil a cup of hearts broth, add dust mite and moth to make mothers brew, a glossing tossed in a pan of pun with butter. Splurge and splatter letter after letter after letter and chase the picture, the landscape and the actions, skip the nouns and hijack the verbs.

Big up the verbs of all walks and ways about them, the turning ones of no fixed address, nomadic tribes folk of letters, the moving semiotic train, the moving bus and car, rust, tracks, carriage to carry out the trip trail, migrating letters and running words, dripping context and wind blown full stops. Null stops going forward to reverse positions and exercise the transition from high view twisting and word rollings out, the build up of pastry and pantry smells, the glue and binding molecules of doe, ray, me, so far the tale has baked itself into phrases melted down through the ages, gloopy goos of the great old ones returning, returning the flavour. The life and death march backward, out of ages into history factory production line, history formed and stamped, shaped and packaged, distributed by time and space, clive and tracy, graggy and laced, spaz and rave, you see the surprise on my face.

As i lean down to tie my lace i get my finger looped in the ribbon of shoe, my tongue starts talking and before you know it i am being run out my socks, run around the wreakin’ like an etheopian long distancer. My tongue got a hold of my soul and laced up the tale of the toe. So now, a few minutes of passed and i feel gassed amidst the mist of literal twist, mint rust and apple pudding. Sweet snowflake, and pattern to distinguish individual spelling. Water language dropping, back to flows, and more of those. Staple the friendly papyrus to one-another and build book-witch, belonging to Dante and the Witches Sabbath. Blind boy Jimmy Johnson could see that back flows and under-currents swirl the girl and boy like a toy boat in a bath with a fat man. Big waves and particle fizz. Foam and lappings.

Trappings of the pre-fix, the very and the more, good, bad and rhetoric. Veins upon the trees shirt strike me down dead in the park. I confess nothing. Disturbance and journey to the centre, to keep moving and styling the phone. Phonetic E.T’s going home. But what is to come after the transtime event? or before the end of history? Avoid the void and bless the woid, and balance yourself, on the edge, comfortable and with a smile like Harold Lloyd. What black and white picture show, just alphabet whatcha show, i ask myself whatcha’ showing, a comma, a full sharp. Flat space and spiral earth. Jerky meat box boys in a cupbaord with a monkey must move the mustard seeds from the ape political party chair, sitting on seeds can result in bum tree and pinapple sap head conditions i should not write of in an off handed manner like so. Like so what, i write off the cuff, and on the bluff side of the loon. No delete delete.

Moving feet are dancing again, dancing barefoot in the mud to strike the MOOD for it to trickle rain. A wetness of image dryed up, wrinkled old alphabetty. Formation dispanded by rubbers and ink-delete pens of mass destruction. Not in more than 12 months have i pumped up my staright backtype to attempt a trapeze poem of sleeze on the fly. How high the moon, how low the vault? Light and sound pulses chatter on top of the surface of any lake you like, waves waves and waves again, never folding waves, always fighting the waves and partying with particles, making light of it all. Shed light on it and hope more of – it all – comes to mind. Kisstory. Misty eared. No rap, but feedbacks. Rap and music. Word-code and air farts seem words apart. Apples turning over adams applecart on linneaus straat. Identifiction and the visscitudes and multiplexy glass looking class-room. Freedom to roam without sentence law. Rhyme and sense for added spice grinders. No fear of the mis-readings of free bleeding of sense data. From a key-build world of distrubance, dance and good solid meal lies, a good soft meal, solid? I sribble for a bad soft meal, a flabby saft salted peanut walk in the park.

An orchestral doobie in the dark. No excuse for the digression, my passion awaits trial, selector be my witness, the ground has swollen up like a bumble bee banquet on the balls. Relief from the angles, the ground corners and shaved sides of whats SQUARE. No squares aloud. Still scratching to try and match the hue hatcher of legend untold. In the days of wildfires, child-locks and adult safety checking accounts the accountable are unable to numerically factor the figures in line with the diggers who place daggers in the heart and cripple the face muscles with the squints and turn us into glimpses Mick Jagger. Like a saucepun i can’t handle it. Spilling mistakes my steaks. Thrilling the gates open with fling-a-ling songs and a scavengers desire for a trash palace of the linguage centres, behind the middle grounds of normalford manner, more junk talk, and with a squark and a gobble, gutteral punk, literal junk talk of coca cola and antagonisms, jimpsun weed and spleen reconstructive drama.

Clean slate and dirty jokes chopped like carrots on marble. Table top to bottom drawer there, i saw a paragraph swinging out the margins of blank. A paragraph dressed in camal-flange and chlorinated. Red betwenen the lights, blue between the sheets and green between the teeth. And the doors are open, i was hoping this would come over last summer or before that, with the wine and rose bud days but no. Never till now, till now, the paragraph comes leaping out from beyond the RULE. Drawing the lines and boundaries of space to fill with free fuzz and buzz, flapping and side-strokes, small wriggle movements and darts to all directions, quarkes and get set. Rumble of trumpet cases in the trunk, funk band on the road, setting off, the words setting sail and finding and window of wind-go.

Faster sharps and flats recursive recorso distrubance. Royal disturbance and slippery foot turns on the oil perturbances scattered in these skits and bits of rhyme glue. A large sprawling array of how i say it. Nothing in particular just stretching our vernacular wires and antenna out to reach Dracula and Cinema veritae’ The real died yonks ago, who invented the real? So the verb plays out up in the backside of the groove the verb echos the future spaces and past places of outer-crash wave, bounce. To polish the stones they abolish and throw them like snowmen and their balls through walls of debt brick and steel, through air glass shafts of crippled overtones and harmonic shake ups.

To shake the sky into order and put the starts on the musical stave. Unyour wobbling pivot to measure the class of word-sound honour and the family of whynotwhats and whofortonowwhens – the information that binds the jumble of crumbled noun. Music to unite the crowning glory of story and tale to leave and bright silken routes to follow, pick up, and thread into the inklish boots, laced footwear taken me hostage once agin, on a plane to ubuntu, the words pulling from just aroud a blind corner, the sound of the sentence directs the destiny, but to tackle the rhyme with fix-it substances, and sew up the pristine package for friends and etyms, taking control of roll and reuniting it with rock in a solid foundation. My flow has go on it, goo on blow the nose of knowledge out your assets. Finger mouse creeping under the cat glove in the kitchen – seems to be pushing the limits of sensible writing and shows the down side to freedom of thought and speech, a child’s TV show and a Ikea oven glove fused.

Like a spark plug in the mouth, the lights are tangy tonight. Crevices and dried up entrances to places only a spider could have known have fell into my scripture, visitors from next door, visitors from across the way, the river side has turned into the water-cider in a drunken tantrum of descriptive lenses. From one side the bath looks opel, from the other coral. The mantra of fish might make for a useful wish in a whales bellyfull of tele-tummy touch table tops. Cable cuts and splices, PING. Crossed wires and fancy foundations of frankly – far and away – flipped fakery. All word comes to this and that, eventually the fuel fails to follow the road and the journey comes to a hault, not mine or yours or anybosy elses but the felt tip feels full and bloated, the felt tip of my finger on this bastard keys, wishing they were LP’s. Letting the wind-up speak. Letting the rumble of word speak and spoke the wheels within gyres within disks. Turn.

http://player.soundcloud.com/player.swf?url=http%3A%2F%2Fsoundcloud.com%2Fflyagaric23%2Fshannanigums-wave-book-iii-chapter-xii& Shannanigums Wave Book III Chapter XII by flyagaric23

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