GIRL DON'T COME
(In Three Voices, Loud)
OPEN OF PLAY. DAMSEL'S REMAINS ON BARE STAGE.
TWO SODS LOITER NEAR, STRICKEN.
(In Three Voices, Loud)
OPEN OF PLAY. DAMSEL'S REMAINS ON BARE STAGE.
TWO SODS LOITER NEAR, STRICKEN.
ONE keens:
Eeeeeaaaaahhhh.
OTHER counters:
Blub.
Blub.
ONE stagger:
Clumpa.
OTHER swoon:
Mmmmzzzz.
Mmmmzzzz.
Say ONE:
Weary? Lounge, counterfeit.
Answer OTHER:
Rabid? Scamper, Spot.
Rabid? Scamper, Spot.
BOTH WERE LOVELORN OF THE DEPARTED AT THEIR FEET.
Sob.
Snivel.
Languish.
Pine.
Requited wast? Say not.
Quite rightly quited, sot.
Proof.
What, goss rag snips?
Words of mouths.
Loops of tape?
Eyes with tongues.
Risible facsimiles.
Plain paper. Habeas Corpulence.
In time, this. In space, that.
Horns Blow. Up stand.
He says She says
scribbled on the bedsheets:
la vérité, monsieur.
Là, very tainted, monkey. Je pense que
tu penses qu'on le pense que
je n'ai jamais passé le temps
sous le toit de la morte. Moi, ça,
c'est quoi que je pense, ça, moi.
je n'ai jamais passé le temps
sous le toit de la morte. Moi, ça,
c'est quoi que je pense, ça, moi.
Sous le toit, toi, tant pis.
Songs of promise sung me she,
predeceased, hear:
♫ "You have a date for half-past eight tonight. . ." ♫
That was one she warbled me, one.
She warbled me too.
So warbled us three and all in one.
Three in one all?
C'est ça, ya squeak.
♫ "Some distant bells start chiming nine. . ." ♫
Yes, we lovered the music, but under and above
we lovered the word. And we livered it.
Croutonic was she at the pop-weekly
Beat-All. Toasted croutonic.
Sobriquet half up the masthead.
Whence you the floor wiped.
Slick with your grovel.
Additional to she than that.
Expatiate.
Mean tell how was it?
How was it.
Thus. Before she croutoned toastily
was she Beat-All postie-bird,
was as it were corresponderer.
Each to other did corresponder we.
Complementary close was I the hers,
she the his, i.e. mine. Again: if I be he
(which such needs be) he was the hers,
hers was the me. And so.
To she: letter. From me: letter.
Again. From me, to she: letter.
Again. She from me, me to she: letter.
Again. Me She Did Me Did She
And I: Letter.
was she Beat-All postie-bird,
was as it were corresponderer.
Each to other did corresponder we.
Complementary close was I the hers,
she the his, i.e. mine. Again: if I be he
(which such needs be) he was the hers,
hers was the me. And so.
To she: letter. From me: letter.
Again. From me, to she: letter.
Again. She from me, me to she: letter.
Again. Me She Did Me Did She
And I: Letter.
Litter. A river of.
You made the TV Indian cry.
Starkers our souls we showered.
Soppy godsbodies.
Like Muff and Jet.
Our storms wetted less celestial regions.
What, fetid boglands?
Sub-equatorial.
Unfold the map.
Topographic, to scale.
Each and several deadline nights at Beat-All
she banging the word prostituter a capsule out
about some wet lanks' new jangle, wee wee hours,
fagged, frayed, adjectivals Roget'd,
wheels her sit back fingers splayed
and requisitions me tray her a thimbler of nip
which mopping done I do, cheers then.
A drop slobbered her face sudden darkling
remarks: "I forgot to remember:
One plug or two? Two plug or one?"
How, plugs?
Bullets, pentagrams, fleur-de-lys
in neat rows at the head.
Semioticating?
What follows: the system at Beat-All
for wrapping capsules in a figure,
videlicet: one plug, two plug,
three plug (rare such) or cipher.
Naughty figure that.
Be rude then.
Ta. So you're saying what, she hadn't
capsulated the lanks in a tally?
capsulated the lanks in a tally?
Astute, soberingly so, proboscis hammering,
elegant, in full livery, dogs glossed, in a word.
On get.
Did. She, delta dampering on leatherette chaise,
avoirdupoising whilst reservoiring the guzzled nip,
cantilevered options cross the blankety-paged abyss:
"Plug? Plug Plug. Plug Plug? Plug."
Évidemment a tweeny this capsule.
Fâcheusement. Formerly famoused
these lanks she, flaxy and wannish
she favored and they fit the slippers.
Plug-and-a-half then.
Précis, mais Beat-All didn't credit half-plugs.
A problem of–
Typography?
Probably. Days gone this, mind.
Said being said, to lace up Gordianally,
as the hour did wee, her indecipheriveness
threatening to wet leatherette,
I made a proposipiphany: "In a saucer underfoot,"
I dangled, "pitch the dregs of nip and mark
how they collect."
As befell?
No whiffs or buts.
To descry her here, anima-lacking,
features floor-pressed, I were languorous
not betokening how in the nonce her lovely
maw and sniffers ope'd. Thus, did that Dicky Dicks
Beat-All capsule carry plug plug not plug
and their sophomore licorice crisp go triple zinc
enabling the lanks to get an autobus Belge
avec douche et bidet for bad diet hard turd touring.
Bent. Sinister.
Dexter the Tender Piledriver.
Notwithstandish, seems to anoint you
for weepy words over Dicky Dicks'
rigored bits, not hers.
for weepy words over Dicky Dicks'
rigored bits, not hers.
How, say. 'Twas a mome for us,
toutes seules, two to tea, howsoever
Dicky Dicks there buffeted be
by fruits windfallen.
Let ears bloom, cauliflower.
Stage-taking you peremptororolorily
cast yourself as devotee of the passed-away
most confectionately for her croutonishness.
In my lot, mirabile dictu, such Dicky Dicks
pended peripherally at best, limp exotics
curlicueing the fringes of the tapis,
whilst our designs snaked centrally,
round-abouting she and me in a clench
of the warm muscly that snuggleth
'bout its bone.
Stage-taking you peremptororolorily
cast yourself as devotee of the passed-away
most confectionately for her croutonishness.
In my lot, mirabile dictu, such Dicky Dicks
pended peripherally at best, limp exotics
curlicueing the fringes of the tapis,
whilst our designs snaked centrally,
round-abouting she and me in a clench
of the warm muscly that snuggleth
'bout its bone.
Your drift is untoward.
Yet like ophthamol in kayak
for the cataract.
for the cataract.
De trop asea, pilot me in.
Attention, petit bateau. HERE
lie . . . does she yet THERE
lay . . . did she being WHERE
lived . . . had she to you HAVING
lied . . . should she for there LAYING
I . . . would she . . . have . . . me.
lie . . . does she yet THERE
lay . . . did she being WHERE
lived . . . had she to you HAVING
lied . . . should she for there LAYING
I . . . would she . . . have . . . me.
Does oratory you ill beseem:
text you swallow, elipses scream.
Dot. Dot. Dot.
IGNOMONIMINY. Up call her
I to answer!
AFORESAID LADYLOVE STIRS
Mmmmmmm. Wha?
Soft, whence the succubuttish plainsong?
And dodgy vapors, ouf!
Yawn. Belch. Snuffle.
Fair zombie, ho! Quicken does
the moldering maid!
the moldering maid!
Fleshly rises Eve, oh stink!
Scratch. Fart. Pee-pee leak.
Ascends our lady of perpetual spank,
at we bereaved doth squinny!
at we bereaved doth squinny!
What, no cherubim a-gambol?
Shame have they too, waifs,
nix jiggling bums for geezers–
nix jiggling bums for geezers–
Shite thy mumbler, she speaks.
Fanboy?
Swamper?
Right.
What then?
Swamper?Right.
What then?
See-See-See-See–
See you him, he?
Him?
He.
Who stands to you athwart?
I'faith.
Distinctly.
Did– with–you– he–
flow home the scump?
Charm me so from après-vie to query?
Sine qua non, the very.
Amen. Yet have you no, either you,
to ask me like the azure heavens are,
where I bend with God from cloudy couch
to tiddle two of you like winks from pouch?
to ask me like the azure heavens are,
where I bend with God from cloudy couch
to tiddle two of you like winks from pouch?
Laterally loll our meaty skulls,
gone angel.
gone angel.
Alarum not your spectre erectus' speech?
Alarum further prospect of reply.
Right, well. A peck salaam
on damask drainéd flews?
on damask drainéd flews?
Your answer be trailer?
As Q to P.
Kissssksskkssssskkkk.
Cha, might've goo'd your lips a dot.
Parched so, they scraped.
Parched so, they scraped.
A dozen pardons, diet of salt,
but what I late crave, blame you.
Do. But dishing of Lot's wife,
your mate gone mute?
A buss cheers too from stage left?
your mate gone mute?
A buss cheers too from stage left?
Willy-nilly. Klililliliiiiishlilillililishhh.
At's it. Juicy, drooly, leave a mark?
Score one for sog, if not for symmetry.
I love architecting.
Score one for sog, if not for symmetry.
I love architecting.
Drops easy love from dead lips
ducking answers.
Patience. You'll die soon enough.
Then we'll rattle on in concert.
Then we'll rattle on in concert.
A point she has, that, she.
A point that pricks, lo.
Blenches.
Ballzyallsacs. If I anti-sanguine grow,
thank 'schatological noodlings not,
the point's beside your prick, besnipped.
If I blench (or blanch or blear),
whilst bleak your broaching breath bereft,
I blench at pending parturition,
like daddy with a week's poop pacing
wringing mitts on wait-room maggies
craves his nigh-born squaller:
so I, your reply.
Your matter please once more?
Again?
Une fois, and how and where and when?
Then, THEN or then,
THERE and/or there,
How HOWSOEVER,
with HIM, he, did YOU, she,
flow home the SCUMP?!
There then now, no: the breach . . . be cinched.
Tight?
Pinched.
Pursed?
Puckered.
Miracle. The lie on a plate eat.
I never made a claim for scumpy flow.
If scump sat off hot sappish else did go.
As our corresponderence thicked,
found us figured stick to stick
o'er pot of ink, took we to supping
other each for tea. Her envelopes
did steam I à la twice repoachéd stewfruits
yielding luscious mucilage flaps,
her sticky licks tartare. With trusty double
helices from crusty spit and drool
might I reconstitute her whole.
Straddling me (idiomatically)
she underwent my langueing,
oh I langued her like I'd tyke-like
langue a greatling brick of chocolate:
till sickened, I and chocolate both,
I from sate and she from being chocolate,
all smudge and toothmark.
If scump sat off hot sappish else did go.
As our corresponderence thicked,
found us figured stick to stick
o'er pot of ink, took we to supping
other each for tea. Her envelopes
did steam I à la twice repoachéd stewfruits
yielding luscious mucilage flaps,
her sticky licks tartare. With trusty double
helices from crusty spit and drool
might I reconstitute her whole.
Straddling me (idiomatically)
she underwent my langueing,
oh I langued her like I'd tyke-like
langue a greatling brick of chocolate:
till sickened, I and chocolate both,
I from sate and she from being chocolate,
all smudge and toothmark.
Mauled, fondness' bottom bleeds.
Yet can't begrudge a starveling brat
his bonbon.
Come Come. You chewed my substance;
you but supped my soul. With such shall
you till judgment play ping-pong? Look:
the courtside wraith keeps not the score;
she sings.
you but supped my soul. With such shall
you till judgment play ping-pong? Look:
the courtside wraith keeps not the score;
she sings.
♫ "You have a date for half-past eight tonight." ♫
A love song.
To which of we?
Lugubricious boyzies,
ye bleat as if you've scat chocked in your gobs.
All songs are love songs, this one sings love stuck:
hope and hanker in marshmallow aspic,
the edge never dulled by carving.
ye bleat as if you've scat chocked in your gobs.
All songs are love songs, this one sings love stuck:
hope and hanker in marshmallow aspic,
the edge never dulled by carving.
♫ "You wanna see her. You wanna see her, oh yeah.
So you wait. You wait and wait. . ." ♫
So you wait. You wait and wait. . ." ♫
Sublime. Let sleep me. All goes.
Sun blinds then hides, the dirty ball
turns over. Tuesday week Beat-All
will spill again with wordsies
re: the wettest lanks and jangles.
Pick it up, you two, hold close,
lick your inky fingers, page turn,
listen. . . music play.
Sun blinds then hides, the dirty ball
turns over. Tuesday week Beat-All
will spill again with wordsies
re: the wettest lanks and jangles.
Pick it up, you two, hold close,
lick your inky fingers, page turn,
listen. . . music play.
Jack Garrett