Bogslut, Molly Blum
(Feb 07/06)
Molly Bloom, bogslut. Blazes Bouillon’s gobspit slathering thigh and tailbone, Plumber’s Kettle meats soiling, sullied bed linens and pillager’s sheets, molt and scummy with crumb-bites and jujubes black, no red ruddy or cerise, but lemony-scented lavations for brisk scrubbings and morning’s halvah. No lento or bog-edged postcards, with lipprints and oils of olla and scurvy, for the fair-skinned and paunch of tripe and minnow, nay a one nor the other, just plain same and addle more nor less. No comeuppance or lightly broasted crumpet, from friar's pox and rector’s purse and satchel. Come yew and none to forge Liffey and arbor, with politick and almsman’s joss, tote-sac full of bread ends and patties serge from meat bye’s and mix of oleo and rot from the insides out. Damn Gingham dead rioting from lime-soil and loam, like a pretty near bulbsore, feet crinkled and threadworn from rum-rummaging with tankard, trove and till-bracket. Say nay, no more for ewe or mean other, just wedgings and ample Adam’s with tie tied round mantle and Merisel. Noah’s bark is a worse than his bite, so Seth the Lorry Allmusty and bracken with cog-rushes and bogsporn and milting more no less. So seethe the Word Allmolty and full of hale and Hardy, fatso with brimcap and fullsteam no-ahead. I needs new tri-spectacles for light reading and rote taking, as perhaps would have it, a new eyespot to recollect the earnest deafening thunder. Gods’night and one, two heave ho, with Puck charm and sonorous chaffing, dishes-splattered in sunbonnets, and a rue facsimile of he himself, the lord Sake Peer, and some and none to send scrubbing fair-heeled totow.
Molly Bloom, bogslut. Blazes Bouillon’s gobspit slathering thigh and tailbone, Plumber’s Kettle meats soiling, sullied bed linens and pillager’s sheets, molt and scummy with crumb-bites and jujubes black, no red ruddy or cerise, but lemony-scented lavations for brisk scrubbings and morning’s halvah. No lento or bog-edged postcards, with lipprints and oils of olla and scurvy, for the fair-skinned and paunch of tripe and minnow, nay a one nor the other, just plain same and addle more nor less. No comeuppance or lightly broasted crumpet, from friar's pox and rector’s purse and satchel. Come yew and none to forge Liffey and arbor, with politick and almsman’s joss, tote-sac full of bread ends and patties serge from meat bye’s and mix of oleo and rot from the insides out. Damn Gingham dead rioting from lime-soil and loam, like a pretty near bulbsore, feet crinkled and threadworn from rum-rummaging with tankard, trove and till-bracket. Say nay, no more for ewe or mean other, just wedgings and ample Adam’s with tie tied round mantle and Merisel. Noah’s bark is a worse than his bite, so Seth the Lorry Allmusty and bracken with cog-rushes and bogsporn and milting more no less. So seethe the Word Allmolty and full of hale and Hardy, fatso with brimcap and fullsteam no-ahead. I needs new tri-spectacles for light reading and rote taking, as perhaps would have it, a new eyespot to recollect the earnest deafening thunder. Gods’night and one, two heave ho, with Puck charm and sonorous chaffing, dishes-splattered in sunbonnets, and a rue facsimile of he himself, the lord Sake Peer, and some and none to send scrubbing fair-heeled totow.
1 comment:
what's with the italics?
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