Dietary Notes For
Sanctuary Harmonium


Further Semi-Automatic Texts


By Alan Gullette






Contents

Along the Well-Worn Path
Concertina
Dietary Notes For Sanctuary Harmonium
Enlightenment
"Give Me a Lever on Which to Stand . . ."
Ninety-two, Birthday
Thoughts Somewhat Relative to the Moment
What of the Clock?


Along the Well-Worn Path

Excerpts from Immanuel Mannís Manual
(trans., Charles Phillip Pidgeoncede)

As the low-lake marchers climbed form the slope of distraught sounds, the blond-haired corsair stepped lightly off to the side and spoke to the slain pebble. The directions were clear. North to the south, then right to the west, arriving at expected times too late. Back with the group, he climbed onward as the book of old had foretold. Ahead lay the Galilean desert of all revered metaphysical romanticism, where the footsteps of early marches trailed of late. Gratitude.

. . . The third sequined charm in sequence of the Sphinx, of course, mentioned that the sub-sand tunneling method was best employed in like practical situations. However, sun-hot sandstorms make the doing harder than the overseer foresaw, and the seeing under the dust is quite difficult in comparison. In this instance, we may infer, the sand-hit path is to be abandoned for the sun-lit detour. For this practice is only theoretically practical. . .

. . . Unheeded, the reunited marchers reached a consequential form of space near the lone water hole on the left, and rested and drank and chewed salted dates whilst the sandpiping sidewinders hissed the sufficiently predicted and misbegotten inoffensive Air in B Flat Major for tuba, trumpet, and sandpiping-sidewinders-clad-in-Sahara-attire. After this festive and bizarre prelude to extended silence, the group rose and continued along the road to destiny, as destined.

They passed unspeaking the inflicted scientific passageways into existence, each strengthened by bethinking over and again the existential creeds to his faceted selves. At last, they come upon an oblique aligned archaic posterboard speaking the truth silently to no one, just as the impersonal testimony of every great philosophy mirrors the contempted cause thereof. And what the "way out" offers is not the way out. . .


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Concertina

The Spaniards, then, they established an outpost in my garage, unexpectedly. They brought out their guitars and proceeded to drive away my cat, dog, spiders, roaches, rats, and barn swallows. The foreign occupation continued, unabated, during glass jar/toothpick clarifications of proper protocol.

Return-order missions produced results of green basement upheavals in time with shrill birdcall imitations. Black mushrooms meanwhile grew rampant to cover straw brooms plucked clean by repetitive melodies, patterned. Throughout the room, vegetation flourished. Rabid-quick assaults eventually gave way to red splinters of previously frozen wind-drifts, unnoticed.

The solid gypsum entertainment was usurped by sugary canine intermissions, sent between concurrent programmes of Flamenco termite extermination. Pools of rippling bark, fungus-ridden, shed full progressive thirds of lightning chordal intersections. Timbral scionic breaches allowed vocal interspersions, spicing the garage air with electronic curries, pickling out-of-place snare solos, crescendant.


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Dietary Notes for Sanctuary Harmonium

Piles of crushed leaves provided a substitute for mung bean salad in portions not infrequently exceeding daily minimum requirements. Filtered Baroque strains soaked in Water Music and lightly spiced with rococo reggae offered high mineral contents to elderly porch-sitters. The latter were somewhat unamused, however, at polk salad reviews filling the encore slot in the menu.

Diced, cooked tablecloth rag rolls lie lithesome in hot buttermilk sauce, regardless of the cruelty involved to Madame Bovine. Slipfinger delights are a new addition to this year's Fourth Dinner, being a preparation of freshly cultured bacilli from Venus with many thanks to Ron Jordan.

The undigested remains of negatively ionized egg-carton keyboard instrument-panels were strewn upon the inorganic garden compost heap out back. Robot gardeners could still be glimpsed toiling in the fields, their eyes dimly flashing on and off in the twilight. Tincture of mineral oil, high in polyunsaturates and without iodine added, would charm their gently spinning and cooling cogs tonight. A few puffs of pure oxygen would get them where they want to be after a hot day's work in the fields.

Calf-liver owners, dying of vitamin A poisoning, were not allowed to attend the festivities this year. The air-balloon advertisements attracted thousands from all Sectors.

The marinated sonatina and fugue, with variations, was the highlight of the festival. It was performed by a vegetable on the newest model of the electronic Polyvoice sound synthesizer with coordinated video synthesis. The featured additive synthesis device was in reality a re-wired electric harmonium (with pneumatic air-pump filters) to which digital optimizers had been added to give the appearance and sound of a full set of organ pipes with voltage-controlled stops. The old instrument had been discovered by the renovator at the shop of an antique and book dealer who frequently gives poetry readings at garage sales near the Sommerset Sanctuary in Sector M.

A new audiovisual disc will be released soon that will include the sonatina and fugue as well as other pieces for sound and video synthesizers interfaced with a random space generator from Polysphere, Inc., manufacturers of Spectrum polyphotosynthesizers and Polyvoice audiosynthesizers as well as a new commercial line of Multi-Sense Environs. The disc is entitled Sanctuary Harmonium and Venusian Winter Squash.


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Enlightenment

The peroxide lampshade slid across the open space and smashed through your only tile floor, burping a puff of acid-smoke. Running to the precipice, you can watch the light grow dimmer as the ultraviolet lamp falls away with a Capotean lisp and burns its way through the successive floors of your building. You have forgotten your protective glasses, so a fiery after-image begins to spread across your melting retina in a subjective supernova. The parasol you meekly spring open between yourself and the solar flare only affectates an optic nervectomic intusion that squanders you in subjective night.

The crowding doctors behold your psychosomatic histrionics (viz., nyctalopsia dementia) as you loudly proclaim your Philosophy of Insight, bombasting an inner vision into the darkest recesses...


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"Give Me a Lever on Which to Stand . . ."

There's a lever in the pocket at the corner of the window. It closes at 11:00 PM. The patchwork is straight; it signifies. The corridor leads into the garden upon which it opens like a portal. The ambergris latticework is narrow; it grows.


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Thoughts Somewhat Relative to the Moment

Half-dead donkeys, whipped and roped up in the corner, lie beside a sealed half-gallon can of paint, along the brick wall, under the wooden bench covered with dusty cushions.

Insane eunuch barman rips chairs from under hopeful patrons, left looking lost, standing or getting up off the floor.

I pull a scrap of paper from my pocket and record thoughts somewhat relative to the moment.


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What of the clock?

cathair woodwork was soaked with violet rays
that dripped like watery syrup from white time-pieces
distraught with perplexing facial complexions.


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