(February 11/08)
Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. (vɒnəgət) 1922-2007, smoked non-filter tipped Pall malls. I tried them once, Pall Malls without filter-tips, and found them spiffy, yet not to my liking. I prefer Blue Gauloises, filer-tipped, by the carton, sometimes by the package. Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. had many, many books published; I have had none, not one, yes, none. I was born, hurried into this world, 36 years after Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. was, and with far less hair, or so I was informed, by whom is unimportant, but told just the same. I started a play many, many years ago called Eating Dylan Thomas Liver, but never saw fit to complete it, finding the whole process, the writing, that is, rather tricky, as there are too few good metaphors for cirrhosis and whiskeyrag. Here’s what I wrote instead, instead of writing more, much more, about how one would go about eating Dylan Thomas’ liver, were one so inclined to do so, yes:
Apaleena herd cows loweng an a ren warballeng an she remembarred incerteng plums inta the fowlds uv har vagina, plumjewce trecalled down har th’eyes a sweetreecally powl undarneeth her boughtum, an tha sharp smel uv cowdung, her i’s moyst frum swet…oneuvus has sumtheng ta hyde, she thoughwt, a secrat bestkept secrat…a bryte summar sun, berds hummeng, cows loweng, sweetreekally fowlds uv wharm skin, oneuvus has sumtheng ta hyde, she thoughwt, a secrat bestleft unsayd. Asfar as she new Humbert hadent spowken a werd ta ane one in y’ears, an wen he did, it wuz in a paynfullee low voyce, a voyce hevee with sadniss an haytred…an angree voyce that mayde tha haires onher theyes standonend, no sweetreecall or sweetsweetarplumjewce, just a hardlow voyce heevee with angar an leyef’s payne.
When I was 11, fresh from the cradle, I was a slow baby, and after a hearty breakfast of Red River Cereal, toast, cut into little fingers, brown sugar and 2% milk, I had an idea for a book I called Slaughterhouse 4, but as I hadn’t learned how to type yet, or read very good, I gave up on the idea and played soccer instead.
Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. (vɒnəgət) 1922-2007, smoked non-filter tipped Pall malls. I tried them once, Pall Malls without filter-tips, and found them spiffy, yet not to my liking. I prefer Blue Gauloises, filer-tipped, by the carton, sometimes by the package. Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. had many, many books published; I have had none, not one, yes, none. I was born, hurried into this world, 36 years after Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. was, and with far less hair, or so I was informed, by whom is unimportant, but told just the same. I started a play many, many years ago called Eating Dylan Thomas Liver, but never saw fit to complete it, finding the whole process, the writing, that is, rather tricky, as there are too few good metaphors for cirrhosis and whiskeyrag. Here’s what I wrote instead, instead of writing more, much more, about how one would go about eating Dylan Thomas’ liver, were one so inclined to do so, yes:
Apaleena herd cows loweng an a ren warballeng an she remembarred incerteng plums inta the fowlds uv har vagina, plumjewce trecalled down har th’eyes a sweetreecally powl undarneeth her boughtum, an tha sharp smel uv cowdung, her i’s moyst frum swet…oneuvus has sumtheng ta hyde, she thoughwt, a secrat bestkept secrat…a bryte summar sun, berds hummeng, cows loweng, sweetreekally fowlds uv wharm skin, oneuvus has sumtheng ta hyde, she thoughwt, a secrat bestleft unsayd. Asfar as she new Humbert hadent spowken a werd ta ane one in y’ears, an wen he did, it wuz in a paynfullee low voyce, a voyce hevee with sadniss an haytred…an angree voyce that mayde tha haires onher theyes standonend, no sweetreecall or sweetsweetarplumjewce, just a hardlow voyce heevee with angar an leyef’s payne.
When I was 11, fresh from the cradle, I was a slow baby, and after a hearty breakfast of Red River Cereal, toast, cut into little fingers, brown sugar and 2% milk, I had an idea for a book I called Slaughterhouse 4, but as I hadn’t learned how to type yet, or read very good, I gave up on the idea and played soccer instead.
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