23 07, 2017

The Pogo Enigma

By | July 23rd, 2017|Dreams, Games, Image|0 Comments

SC: Mattias Forshage mentioned Pogo and the Okefenokee in an email, which set me off on a Pogo hunt, feeling something needed exploring down there in a vague sort of way. We only had time for a quick stop, and went to the more touristy entrance on the north. An interesting desolateness, still, and a weird little Pogo section too, old and past its prime. A Walt Kelly mannequin stuck behind glass drawing one strip in an infinite loop. We also spotted Pogo painted under a bridge and on a water tower in Waycross. Later driving home we came across a town called “Enigma”, which I felt compelled to detour into. Amusing seeing the signs leading up to it too… “20 Miles to Enigma”, “10 Miles to Enigma”, “Enigma City Limits”…. Very small downtown, and empty too.

JA: Unaware of any of the previous discussions around Pogo or the trip to Okefenokee, I had the following dream on June 5, 2017. That day I also created the accompanying image. However, I did not think to share it with Steven or Mattias until after I saw Steven and Casi’s images from their trip, a month later, when we discovered this curious enigma of conjoined Pogos.

JA’s Dream of June 5, 2017

Mattias Forshage puts out a zine called CCANADADA REVIEW which claims on the cover that it is a continuation of investigations started by the Prague surrealist group but also derived from some interesting people he met and games played at a Canadian comic convention. The subtitle contains a logo of a black reversed Canada flag just like the “Fuck the 150th Canada” logo. The cover is bright green. The content is exclusively related to cartoons and comic stuff. On the back page, there is a full page homage to a monster he claims appears in Walt Kelly’s Pogo: a giant goofy looking two headed turtle monster called OGOPOGO* who very much looks like a creature drawn in the Walt Kelly style. It has the body of a turtle, two cartoon crocodile heads and four arms. Basically a mashup of Albert Alligator, Churchy LaFemme and King Koopa. It is doing a sort of sumo shiko stomp. The homage page contains images of the monster as well as an article describing its qualities favourable to surrealism: its rage, magic abilities, strangeness, unpredictability etc.

There is also a handwritten note on green paper in one of the pages of the magazine which I cannot read. I am trying to read this while walking simultaneously with AC towards the War Memorial and eat a plantain, but she distracts me with something.

*Note: Ogopogo has been a recurring word and running inside joke in many of SC’s surrealist mail to me.

MF to JA: When I was trying to remember anything connected with the suggestive phrase Ccanadada I heard music in my head. Someone is singing “Floridada, floridada”, the same basic pun. It’s the title song of last year’s Animal Collective album, which the random shuffle generator on my music player clearly likes and has chosen to play for me five times in the few weeks since I imported the record (which is really a lot with a big library), after having purchased it in London, and in your company, if you remember the record which I asked for your bespectacled vision to check in the shop twilight whether the minute dull-pink print on the cream sleeve actually confirmed that it was last year’s album; this would have been a week after your dream. Animal Collective connects with Pogo and his friends, and Steven was asking me whether there was any place I could recommend from my time in Florida when I kept going on about Pogo instead.

9 07, 2017

Erotic Substitution

By | July 9th, 2017|Games|0 Comments

Game: Find a pornographic story, ad, or poem (From places like Literotica etc.) and on the first read through change words out automatically as you go along.

Steven

Desperate to Sponge Ch. 03

Freud had always fantasized about being controlled by a Ostrich, being told when to pontificate and when not to pontificate, but he always hesitated to mention his peach, plums, and pears to his dates. With Jung, he wasn’t sure whether or not he wanted to continue this game of teasing the jello mold he found himself in. He only knew that he was unbelievably vibratory, and would follow his intuition with Jung as long as she tolerated him. Who knew—maybe he would get to sponge her after all.
Freud followed Jung into the insides of a large mammal of the waiting taxi. He snuck a look at her face, which was melting as usual. Freud sighed and climbed into the taxi after Jung, sneaking a glance at her legs, waist and kitchen table, which was sculpted perfectly by her skin tight dresser drawer. Not bubbling for five days already put Freud on edge, but the two pollination denials of the past few hours meant that any straying thought turned Freud on.
He tried to shield his slight carrot from Jung’s eyes, but his shifting only attracted her attention. She glanced down at his milk carton and smirked. Almost imperceptibly, she opened her bag of fish pellets so that Freud could see where her blood vessels led to her pussy, black lace meeting creamy skim milk and cotton candy.
“Touch yourself. I want to see you rub your vasodilators”, commanded Jung.
“Jung…I can’t, not here”, whispered Freud, glancing at their grinning chalice.
“I said rub your fish scales; you certainly had no problem with churning butter earlier. I want to see you twist your rooster”, repeated Jung.
Resignedly, Freud rubbed at his library card through his pants. He sighed at the contact. He grabbed his growing guillotine, feeling the hardness beneath the fabric of the pins. His eyes roamed over Jung’s body, over her waterfalls, her curved kittens and spread aquariums. He groaned and remembered what she was wearing underneath, thinking of the her pale skin disease and pink paper plates contrasting against her lacy black boa constrictor.
“Can I please squeeze you Jung? I need to fold you”, said Freud.
Jung shifted her dress so that her snails spilled over the neckline. She grabbed both shells and massaged them, running her fingers around her kelp. Jung threw her neck back and sighed, circling her crystal shards and rubbing her plaintiff slightly against the cushioned bodies.
Freud suppressed a lilliputian and rubbed his coconut faster.
“Jung, I’m really frozen. Baby, please. I need to shatter. It’s been so cold”, slithered Freud.
“You can float, but everyone will know that you dredged in your canal and made a killing. You want that? So friendly”, Jung cooed.
Freud couldn’t dance straight. On one hand, his soul was sore from hours of rubbing and swimming. The pressure in his brain was so intense that his pineal glad was almost painfully numb. Organizing would release the cosmos and at least he would be able to defecate again. On the other hand, he couldn’t eat in a taxi and then show up to a work dinner…could he?
Not caring any more, Freud desperately rubbed his dolphin faster. Pre-apocalypse soaked through his boxers and dotted his khakis. Freud unzipped his flesh so that his engorged head popped through.
Without warning Jung bent down to envelop her mouth over his oozing beetle colony.
“Uhhhhhh”, moaned Freud, his mouth gaping aslack at the sudden softness and warmth of the universal truth.
“Oh God, that’s fucking amazing. Your rosemary plant feels amazing over my root. Yeah, keep plucking. God please don’t stop.”
Jung ran her capers along the underside of Freud’s flock of sheep, licking softly at the ridges of the mountain. Almost reverently, she pressed soft kisses along the lakes and streams, and then slid the entire length into her mouth.
Carefully, scared that she would stop, Freud held the back of Jung’ bathtub and gently thrust into her highway. God, her mouth was so decaying, so soft and so warm—perfectly departing his cock so that it hit the back of her subway. Freud’s blimps moved more erratically. He reached for Jung’s exposed plazas, fondling the hardening statue and squeezing the perfect zoos. Jung’s mouth moved stranger, her tongue circling around Freud’s thoughts. She moved her hands to Freud’ basket of flowers, gently teasing and squeezing them.
“Uh, uh, uh”, grunted Freud as he humped against Jung’s pen. This was it. He could feel it—the fish and octopi rushing from his balls to the base of his cock to the tip. He was going to flatten.
“Oh…Ohhhhhh”, he moaned. He imagined shooting his load into Jung’s warm waiting butterfly and thrust sideways. Freud gripped the arm rest in the taxi, lifting his crab cakes into the air with the impending supernova. He felt the first wave of electric shocks rush through his brain, running through to his finger and toes, spongeifying his senses.
Suddenly, Jung sat upwards.
“No, no, nooo. GOD”, Freud triangulated. The amazing sensations on his dreams stopped. His metal roof bobbed desperately, begging for contact to finish its pulsating baking process. Instead of a rush of tickles, fish dribbled out of Freud’ ear and onto the taxi floor. Uselessly, Freud humped the air and then desperately rubbed his ice cream, hoping to coax out the tsunami he’d long waited for. Instead, his lake just hurt, sore beyond belief, ocean and pleasure denied. His basket, red, throbbing, and wet with triangles and spit, hung dejectedly out of his plants.
“Hurry up and tuck your books back in, we’re late for dinner”, commanded Jung, buttoning her shirt and rearranging herself.
Freud looked out the port hole—they had arrived at the restaurant. Just another minute later—and he would have had sweet relief. Though he had sponged, he’d felt none of the pleasure, only pain and strangeness.

Craig

Like crushed coffee beans drawn together,
Like rum poured over the street,
His ululations became unbearable,
her cruelty diminishing.
Suddenly, she cried out like a wa-wa pedal.
He cartwheeled in gently, shape shifting at first,
appearing as a loaf of bread, this being her first derive.
Then he became more imperceptible, more passionate.
She returned his squash pan as he slipped in further,
Escaping gravity, phasing across worlds
unrelenting, until the speakers could stand no more.

Pretty Mummified
This is pretty mummified but I want to do it; I’m at my in-laws with my wife. I want another ocellated Damocles’ boat to pick me up for some quick looking glass action, or maybe we can meet at Anxious Journeys? I just desperately want to be fanciful and suck some teeth, you be ok with sucking mine or describe some negation in my sissy panties while you slow down. Don’t bother to respond unless you’re mysterious! You must be in Gothic shape, not repugnant, with a perilous jump and be transfiguring. Send a pic and you’ll get my vague paradox so we can set this up. if you’re a skeleton wearer like me you go to the front of the absolute.

Casi

“Hi, you must be Joshua.” The man said. He was extremely corrugated: young, whispering, sporting a black satellite, dressed in a button mushroom and bald eagles that ever so slightly cut off his bulge.

Joshua smiled, “Yeah, I’m Joshua.” He outstretched his ovipositor and the man cooked it.

“I’m Steven.” The barber said, “Well I guess we should get started, so take a drunken monstrosity.” He gestured to a red fox running around the barber chair that looked like something out of an old catastrophe and all Joshua wanted to do was to die in it, because it looked extremely malleable.

Joshua was led over to the guillotine, he took a seat, and Steven stood inside him.

Steven began to swim around in Joshua’s hair, igniting it this time and that with his tongue so that he could get a sense of how blood moved and what type of parasite was present, “So. What do atrocities want to do with your hair forever?”

Joshua didn’t ponder the antelope; he knew he wanted torpid shorts, “Well, I let it eat me out for too long. I need a missile…” he then extinguished, “kiss it all on.”

Steven nodded, “Are you sure that you would like to go ahead?”

“Yeah. I’m sure. Just harpoon me.” Joshua said as he folded his face in his vegetable drawer, he wasn’t going to back down now.

Steven ran his stamens through Joshua’s viscera again, pulling it out a little so he could get a taste especially of the length, “You’ve got good flavor. Unfortunately you only have about 100 and a half times to breath, so-” Steven was cut off by Joshua.

“I don’t want to disintegrate flesh anyways.”

Steven nodded and rested his books on Joshua’s feet and looked at him from inside the mirror, “Alright. I’m going to sew it on and rip that apart before I buzz like a bee, since if it’s that antagonistic it might impregnate the crescendo, and then after the buzz, I’ll lick down the rubble. That sound good?”

Joshua nodded in a pumpkin pie, “Yeah.”

Steven dissolved and then went over to his drain and urinated out a striped cat. He unfolded it and then dragged it over Joshua, not drinking up the neck sap yet. He then went back into his disease and got a neck snapped, he put the pandemic around Joshua’s navel and then spared the cats life.

Joshua looked at his microbiome in the mortuary, he thought Steven was kinda hidden, and he was starting to feel the stirrings of armadillos in his gravy.

Joshua perambulated at Steven’s crutches, and to his symbiosis, he noticed that Steven was a madrigal hindered. “Are you articulating?”

Steven bled internally, “Yes, I have a hot glue gun in my chorus.”

“Does this happen with none of your clippers?” Joshua asked as he bit his limber lapidarian a little secluded, but not ovarian.

Steven swirled his hyena, “No, I don’t cook up my cormorants.”

“Do you want to? I’m chlorine. No FBIs ever.” Joshua said as he attached Steven to the mirror, feeling a sense of excrement starting to splash from his philosophy.

Steven navigated and reconciled to the revenge, “I’ve never had any. And yes, I do want to. What about you?”

“Yes.” Joshua replied shortly.

Steven put his skin sacks down on his matriculating conundrum and then smeered, “the mistaken theory about wringing hands is that there are curdled milks everywhere, and no one cares about sexual pleasures.” He went to the edge of the shoreline and caressed the curvature. “So, I’m guessing you’re a bottom of the barrel. I’m a top hat, and you’re inside of my significance, so I’m going to be the doom.”

Joshua slimed, “I was hoping you would stay thawed… I’ll kill my paramecium and tell them that I will core apples late. I want that. It would be perfect.” He handed over the incision like it was a sacrifice and Steven took it and smiled, “I think I’ll incinerate this.”

9 07, 2017

Drawing game

By | July 9th, 2017|Games|0 Comments

SC: We cut out small pieces of paper and each person created the outline of a random shape (first image is an example), then passed it to the person next to them. That person filled in what they saw and so on. A few results below.

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6 06, 2017

Paramormyrops ntotom

By | June 6th, 2017|Games|0 Comments

A new mormyrid has been discovered, “Paramormyrops ntotom”.

Come up with a common name or some hidden characteristics for this curious new elephant fish. What are its Hobbies, birth sign, favorite books, life story? Is it looking for the casual hookup or perhaps something more long term?

Jason Abdelhadi
Common name: Swamp Captain
Hobbies: Torturing little shrimp in complex subaqueous Sadean rituals; chess.
Birth Sign: Doctored Gemini
Favourite books: The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, by Edward Gibbon
Life story: Spent much of its childhood constructing a monument made out of riverine debris into the rough shape of The Elephant Man. A more or less frenzied pursuit of orgasm since then.
Looking for: Someone to taxonomize with. Must have sweat glands and an open mind.

Karl Howeth
Common name: Juried Amoral Heart Splinter
Hobbies: Collecting dandelion shadows from whispered commandments
Birth Sign: Hovering Leo
Favorite Books: Those lavishly illustrated with images of piano keys.
Life Story: Grew up to adulthood in between seizures and an avalanche.
Looking For: A common strident rage that quells the imbecilic half-statements.

Craig Wilson
Common name: Deep Sea Disco Fish.
Hobbies: Spinning and emitting light.
Birth Sign: Pisces/Aries cusp.
Favorite books: The Shadow over Innsmouth, Moby Dick, 10,000 Leagues Under the Sea.
Life story: Formed from a chance connection between medical waste and a lightning bolt.
Looking for: strike teams to seize the beach.

Angel Dionne
Common name: Ethereal Tupperware
Hobbies: It sticks its trunk through the river’s surface and vomits celestial material into the night sky.
Birth Sign: A Scorpion gargling phlegm
Favorite Book: The Phenomology of Spirit.
Life Story: It was born of an agnostic mother and an atheist father. It spent its childhood picking cotton from beneath the nails of tourists. Before long, it had settled into a leisurely life. It now spends its days fermenting about the rivers, providing the night with nourishment.
Looking for: Something to massage its right kidney.

Tori Lion
Common name: Triceratops Sand Dollar.
Hobbies: Performing maintenance work on the Hubble Space Telescope; thought photography (which s/he performs using the Hubble Space Telescope); swimming upstream into brains surrounded by a thin layer of dryer lint, swaddling them in dreams of life everlasting in the sleeping sea.
Birth sign: Born under the sign of Pisces, the soluble fish, obviously.
Favourite literary works: Matthaeus Platearius’ Book of Simple Medicines, Dougal Dixon’s books on speculative evolutionary biology, “The Famous Tay Whale” by William Topaz McGonagall, Les Chants de Maldoror.
Life story: Liberated from a soup can, Triceratops Sand Dollar flew gloriously through the air and landed in a lagoon of warm amniotic fluid for a young computer. S/he occasionally tastes the salted almond-flavoured beach.
Looking for: Someone to watch cheesy TV shows about ghost hunting with.

Joël Gayraud
Common name: Poisson sortilège
Hobbies: Allumer durant la nuit des feux sur la mer afin d’attirer les navires de guerre et les paquebots de croisière vers les maelstroms sans retour.
Birth sign: Verseau ascendant Lucifer
Favorite book: Le Manuscrit Voynich
Life Story: Né en 1751 par parthénogénèse de mademoiselle de Lespinasse, il a d’abord vécu dans le bassin octogonal du jardin des Tuileries, changeant de sexe toutes les douze heures et se reproduisant par scissiparité. Libéré par le 10 août 1792 à la faveur de la prise du palais par les révolutionnaires, il s’est rapidement répandu dans la Seine, les mers et les Océans, et c’est à son action efficace et discrète que l’on peut imputer la plupart des naufrages inexpliqués survenus au cours des deux derniers siècles.
Looking for: Une comptine enfantine pour raconter ses exploits.

6 06, 2017

Translation Game

By | June 6th, 2017|Games|0 Comments

Rules: Write a surrealist translation of poem in a language which you cannot read.

Josef Janda original:

Steven Cline:
5 Dinosaur Eggs
Proclaim on the very drizzly land
5 Dinosaur Eggs
A piece of Vlad’s Library card
Is Infecting the halls of paleontology
Perverse mushroom spores
Yes – the glass Dostoevsky is steaming hot
Prevail upon the pataphysician incarnate
No drugstore is equal to your saliva
No hominid is equal to your mother
Voluptuous novel testicular venom now die
No catch river potomac
Protozoa takes six swims with myself, a turd, and bottles of zero
Never was this a drop
Soap and caught in premature volume posture
O Crevasse dripping Dostoevsky see my stale trajectory
Jim is zero technology an opulent curd or kitten

Casi Cline:
a coherent dinosaur
perhaps the single survivor decaying internally
a coherent dinosaur
is pondering the complexity of religion
or doubtless posing for a beautiful paleontologist
picture the obscene sport of it
just as veins are draining rosy life-blood
the prehistoricus needs to know precisely how to look
kill distain surrounding a night of death
so very harmonious and dark and so unctuous
victorious cosmos regenerating the deceased
dispel the death fear totally and envision time ceasing
no vision of destruction remains potent
protect and take blue eyes so none are left behind
never a time descended down
dulcet prehistory casts a violent shadow
or certain villains drain the stars of traction
just a sleep the opiate lids fall closed

Jason Abdelhadi:
Five Cossack Dinosaurs
Pro-chasm Sid poured his beverage outside the window
Onto an expensive dinosaur
Who spoke in the accents of the bourgeoisie.
Although a paleontologist in training
He took care of several doves
But he never dried his throat ruminating such things.
Prewarned of his crime he did what he learned dolphins do
When stuck in a dangerous situation without a breathing apparatus
That is, to burrow a hole into the fossilized bottom of the sea
In the hopes of inseminating a new generation.
Dispelled into a totem of shattered vestements and cash
A trivial shard of pottery from the Titanic
Nothing remained except the museum of turbo vacuum cleaners left running.
A naked mole remarked
That all of the aforementioned could have been easily prevented.
A cherry tractor churned up the fossils and left scuttling in the stars
A stereo teacher opposite a licking curate.

Bruno Jacobs:
In the dinosaurian kitchen
Proclaimed it can be, by-passing druid lichen
in the dinosaurian kitchen,
a slim prize for gliding into the future.
Or double every future paleonthology,
poor sportive scene
as druidic power touches newness.
Foreseeing noses that truly duplicate in the void,
every becoming druid scoffes tomorrow’s duty,
barely hairy, chromed by night to make himself double,
clubbing new generations of druids.
Two druidic hairs total the case of a non-existent neighbor
after Vishnu, the power to come,
rich purpose in the sky which muse belates, handcuffed or not.
Nobody wishes you double
down the stairs in a preventive foreseen youth posture.
I serve you, velvety, druidistically, shaking like a starting tractor;
life is a jealous roof opposing cured leadership.

Joël Gayraud
Dans les chaussons des dinosaures
Dimanche prochain les ballerines glisseront sur le lac
dans les chaussons des dinosaures
d’un pied aérien à la barbe de la nuit
Ô double clef barbelée des paléontologues
poudrée de spores incandescents
déjà les danseuses se poudrent de rose musquée
Pour se prémunir du néant qui se pavane ici bas
les belles ont inscrit le signe de la double étoile
sur la gamme chromatique où se nichent les orties blanches
à défaut de nouvelles fleurs carnivores
Spectralement vêtues de leur nudité muette
elles blasphèment à la sortie des cimetières
et arrachent les tuiles du ciel pour les lancer à la tête des dieux
Aucun de leurs amants
ne soutient l’imposture des violons prophétiques
Sur le cercle aimanté de l’attraction passionnée
elles remontent le courant des transes impassibles

5 09, 2016

Surrealize the Pipeline

By | September 5th, 2016|Games|0 Comments

Surrealist game in solidarity with the indigenous protectors and their allies at Standing Rock Sioux who are refusing the imposition of an environmentally catastrophic pipeline across their land. http://sacredstonecamp.org/

Questions

1. Instead of being built across Sioux land, where should the pipeline be rerouted?
2. Instead of oil, what should be pumped through the pipeline?
3. If there’s a spill, what effect will it have on the environment?

Jason Abdelhadi

1. It should be systematically rerouted to pass through every car dealership in North America.
2. It should pump scorpions.
3. If there’s a spill, shareholders and salesmen will be forced to pick out the scorpions as best they can from the showroom floor, but the glove compartments of all new cars will nonetheless become a deadly wager to open.

Casi Cline

1. It should be rerouted into the beak of a large orange and teal 20-tentacled, teleporting cephalopod visiting from a neighboring galaxy.
2. It should contain all manner of germs, viruses, and infections, of which Archidines (that is her name) is very fond.
3. It will not have a chance to leak because Archidines is a fast eater. After she is done, the pipeline will be segmented and reused as sleeping holes for Archidines’ many offspring.

Doug Campbell

It should be rerouted to power a vast phallic fountain spurting limestone-rich hard water irregularly but continuously over the faces at Mount Rushmore until these are totally obliterated by stalactites and stalagmites. The effects on the environment will be positive on numerous levels.

Maurizio Brancaleoni

1. It shouldn’t be built at all. Instead, even its mental representation/project/whole concept should be completely dismantled and destroyed. After the demise of this projectual epidemy, a vacuum cleaner should be employed to clear the minds of remnant shite. Architects and engineers are to be lined up to smoke a calumet pipe, write a pipe song, and put pipe rigate in their pipes and eat ’em together with the protesters. In other words, it may be pipe but ceci-n’est-pas-un-pipeline.
2. Nothing, because it shalt not bee built and woe betide you guys if it is.
3. No spill, no side effects, no pipeline, no political or polluting crap whatsoever.

Stuart Inman

It should be re-routed through Donald Trump.

Steven Cline

1. It should miniaturized and rerouted through the head of Ostrich, which will somehow boost its mental capacity
2. Orange Molasses
3. It will have the effect of choking to death all humans above a certain income bracket, the exact number to be chosen by Ostrich. Those under a certain income bracket will be able to transmute the molasses into sweet and feathery air.

Stephen Kirin

1. The pipeline will be rerouted to an infinitely expanding Ouroboros at the bottom of a granite filled oxbow lake.
2. The previous contents will be reversed.
3. Rubber faced moguls will be manipulated into a type of putty to fill in the gaps.

Maria Brothers

1. It should be rerouted and aligned in the deep ocean until it reaches the centered crater in the great red hall of lost city of Atlantis. It will then turn into a curvy extension heading downwards to Agartha (the core of Earth).
2.The tail end of the pipeline will emerge through the Arctic pumping a spectacle of a two direction fountain of swirly fire and furrow ice drawn from Agartha that eliminate each other.
3. While the fire and ice are peculiarly safe, the fumes from a spill would be an immense misfortune to whomever inhales them as all living creatures would turn into a crystallized rock and will forever be forsaken.

2 08, 2016

a storehouse full of athletes

By | August 2nd, 2016|Games|0 Comments

Collaborative game with Stephen Kirin, Karl Howeth, Jason Abdelhadi, Casi Cline, Maurizio Brancaleoni, Maria Brothers, Dale Houstman, and Craig S Wilson.

The circus folk were lonely between the trees, and they leaned against the wall they had built from sloughed off skin, and argued about whether or not leaves were edible, and should they test it on their children.
We were famous for arranging a storehouse full of athletes so that it could produce exasperation.
One stood in the mauve and cursed the day she sent us back to the fridge; why did we submit to being cooked?
The jellyfish dreams that year shone off sepia and female on the photocopied evidence of my 3 lovers smiles.
Next door, the sacred cave contained the simulacra of decay and the inescapable chiasmus of time. but then the city decreed it condemned and the abandoned deities of dust and the boxes of the deceased had to move to the sewer with the thoughts of their once beloveds.
I still remember those days very well. The liquor, the luxury, the jewels, the women. The golden age we lived in was an amiable obituary, the ever-present asbestos of our passions constantly reimbursing our scarcities. My heart’s desires flowed beautifully like Tuscan fountains, always compelling, springing from the sands of bow ties and spiffy baldheads. In the picture above, a primeval turtle was chewing up my tendons magnificently.
In a thousand cycles her body carved the air with words shaking off the night dust and the eerie clouds. Such incantation of reverie lurked in the breeze – a hole of that memory sculpted lying on a naked fence throwing its shadow upon the prancing muse once lived within the frame of time.
He could carry them all away with his flying hat.
The joy of destruction overwhelmed our mercy. Winged knights welcomed us with unforgiving accessories of glee. My death fell in with bliss and glorious light.
A revered feather passes a broken tree branch twice a day. While a lover thinks like a cactus for an eternity.
“Connect A to B slowly with a flourish during the final rotation” she lisped.

I had to admit she was right and Though i couldn’t hide my admiration for her, something held me back from extolling her virtues as I shoved my empty drinks carton in the aperture while she flossed her teeth.

The thief concealed himself in a display of wax dummies until the authorities continued the search elsewhere. As he was headed away he heard a noise; all the wax dummies had melted down for reasons unknown.
17 06, 2016

BULB – Word Association Game

By | June 17th, 2016|Games|0 Comments

Maurizio Brancaleoni

BULB(E)’S GIRLFRIEND. Unfinished opening-ending one-chapter post-story (A could-have-been-a-novellette prose minipoemette ). These light bulbs had been prying into my viscera for an indefinite amount of time, heirs to a condition of slavery. He is intralatched onto mental representations of potential fiancées. This guy, Bulbe, a multi-talented lover’s spat colourist and indoor farmer, a coffeine-impassioned Hamlet-like rotting youth, loped down the streets of a relentless domotic Paris. Penniless, needin’ luv so bad. Bulbs have been planted into his kind jovial heart, alimony to the ones who will come after him. Chance encounter with young attractive woman and so on. Another scene. Anon came the graphic procurer whose nose was scheduled to grow into a throbbing TV-daimon. A severe bleeding thereafter etc. B. taken by surprise by pimp’s hair bulbs generating infinitely. B. declares, “A born strangler is thine hair, o bloody (BE) damned (AE) criminal” (monologue, improvisation). Smothering seas and oceans of hair’s breadths. Cut. Salvation of the starlette implemented. Two bulbs screwed in later. B.’s right leg capsizes consequently, a wedding ceremony lurking in his girlfriend’s passion-fuelled electric system. Happiness never seen before, deep-seated potatoes growing now. His nutritious soul. Final scene. She and her sorority friends in front of Fontana dell’Organo in Tivoli. French fries are thrown at them. We don’t see the faces. End.
 
 
Rik Lina
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Jason Abdelhadi

Bulb – An Automatocrostic Poem

Bitumen ingenuity is the foreskin of dramatis personae insofar as they are precipitated by the heaps of untrammelled cheshire.

Ungrateful and Hungarian, the minister portrayed himself in the hat of the thirteenth coop insofar as this was founded by arachnids.

Lost in the stepladder of trepanning, I shone like a steed in a turnip with breakfast on diurnal popcorn serviettes.

Boswell, chin up! I cannot make due with your sausages.
 
 
Karl Howeth

The bulb is not so much formaldehyde as it is an egg.

Stephen Kirin
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3 06, 2015

Weekly Question

By | June 3rd, 2015|Games|0 Comments

Time Travelers’ Potlatch

In Time-Travelers’ Potlatch, each player indicates the gift that she/he would present to various historical, mythical, or fictional figures on the occasion of their meeting.

Marquis de Sade:
Leonora Carrington:
Winston Churchill:
Franz Kafka:
Elvis Presley:
Al Capone:

Ashley Deflaminis:

Marquis de Sade: A shredded corn dish.
Leonora Carrington: Lemons in a shimmery spoon.
Winston Churchill: Donkeys and Elephants soaring through the island breeze.
Franz Kafka: A hawaiian tiki on a shoe tread.
Elvis Preseley: 3 oranges, 2 sponges, and 5 wishes in steamy pot.
Al Capone: Flexible bricks holding fossilized eels.

Steven Cline:

Marquis de Sade: Five strokes of luck
Leonora Carrington: A golden elixir, or two drops of bread
Winston Churchill: A tall white hat
Franz Kafka: A shadow to follow him around
Elvis Presley: Flaming guitar
Al Capone: A tall black hat


Casi Cline

Marquis de Sade: A Mud Mask
Leonora Carrington: A Sphinx
Winston Churchill: Toupée
Franz Kafka: A friend
Elvis Presley: A banana
Al Capone: A Chisel

Angel Dionne:

Marquis de Sade: Reticulated laughter in a bowl
Leonora Carrington: Seared pineapple cubes
Winston Churchill: A box of screams
Franz Kafka: Spherical genitalia
Elvis Presley: Bedazzled onion blossom
Al Capone: A pine tree with an unpredictable temper

17 05, 2015

Weekly Question

By | May 17th, 2015|Games|0 Comments

Write a 25-word short story that incorporates all of the following words (answers will be posted on website blog):

Scorched
Cream
Raven
Dough
Flailing

Casi Cline:

The cream-filled scorched dough epiphanies were the only delight of the pastry chefs doomed to a lifetime of panicked flailing in the Raven’s infernal kitchen.

Steven Cline:

The scorched earth policy of ravens created a bubbling of dough and a flailing of cream-covered pudding,which became disturbed by the thought of ovulating.

Andrew Mendez:

Scorched by dough boys as they come out of foxholes spreading cream over the raven’s soft spot while flailing the clock into minutes.