tanguy Thumbnail Sketch
for
Chateau Design

and other Semi-Automatic Texts


By Alan Gullette

Contents

Filling The Air, Glowing
The Froth of a Cuckoo, Sickly Sweet
Fruit Soup Discussion
Mixolydian Fantasy
My Destination
Nostalgia and the Hair Victory
Six
Thumbnail Sketch for Chateau Design
Tube of Bee Pollen


Filling the Air, Glowing

Razor fish glide beyond spittoon birthdays. Besides autumn, there was constricted banana-chair. Footwashers strode by on palm leaves, spectating and speculating. Also, gum soldier detectors strummed broken potato chips with classical technique.

Frigid seamstress followers compete with sportsline panty raid-runners, engineering spot-checks. As you watch, the disk-mantle display finders place almond selections on your dirty shoe-tongues. Afterwards, the unnoticed guardrail shopworkers slip toothpick sundaes to drinking-arm widow-mixers, undaunted. This was less than often.

Trees slept throughout park attendant frolicking. Market hang-ups decree place-keeping to be unlawful between beer pubs. Shorthandling covets improvised jack-hammer percussion filling the air, glowing.


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The Froth of a Cuckoo, Sickly Sweet

Around and about the half-swings of a trapeze doll there shone brief glints from the cuckoo's soft eyes. Blue feathers and green were plumage of thin atmosphere clouding the cage. A stampede of flaps and squawks illuminated the doll collector to sadly face the buckle art. Sweeping trapeze perusals afforded full comprehension of like unlikely types of signature engravures, embellished.

The implied imputation indicated a young magician, a thief, a slut of an actress, and a self-proclaimed Western Buddhist, while a history professor enamored of Sir Thomas Moore watched only filtered portions of the drama from a limited vantage point in the tower to which his achievements had confined him. Thus deeds are done and undone, countless times -- each act a seed spit upon the ground, cultivated carefully or developed unwittingly into a sunflower of consequences.

The spinning, now, of a new blender recalls focus to the musty apartment where a retired sailor grinds the bird into salt, then adds water and blends the mixture into the froth of a cuckoo, sickly sweet.


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Mixolydian Fantasy

There's a pressure in the ears. Thoughts move incredibly faster than they can be recorded... "He tuned his guitar to the rubric of siren foxes, easily collecting the mail at each whole step..."

I cut across all semblance of domain, spawning cartwheels of indecision. A mint-leaf rumor filled the spacious room. Three sap buckles, wearing leather, scoffed at the frog-lady's dislocated imposition.

The spittle of your fears runs down consecutive shoehorns as feathery bone-chewers lounge on the lawn, slowly. A fantasy in Mixolydian mode was modeled on echoes from an ivy-covered church. Your refrigerator-tendon arms reach around street corners toward baseball parks.

There are tingling sensations in the eyes just as if Sunday school were out. A ripple passes though the field of vision, riding a breeze of mint and aloe. Sugarstorm Sunday shoppers creep through empty basket stalls to offer themselves for nutritional analysis.


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My Destination

My fingers reach, they touch your sun-charged fibers. They extol you with their worship. They complete your sense of promise.

I would drift away in the liquid vision of your eyes, but I find me in the electrical hardware of your machinery, which grinds me and mauls me, eating away all my flesh until I escape, crawling, torn, singing a Mexican song about a woman denying her suitor.

I float out of your ear on the sound of my own tormented wailing and rediscover myself sitting at a table, writing to correspondents who cannot adequately describe in words the sound of their own breathing. Finally I mail myself away, knowing full well -- knowing all too well -- that I will never reach my destination.


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Nostalgia and the Hair Victory

The cast of pale pall-bearers was appalled when a naked woman ran out of the barber shop with her lower abdomen covered with shaving cream. The well-known debutant and mistress of a Computer Applications Assistant, she flaunted her organs to an applause of buckwheat pancakes dripping with whipped margarine and raw Arkansas honey. Dancing gleefully, she played a Baroque gavotte on her organs, emitting deep moans from her air pipes while her lungs heaved as bellows. Low-flying clouds were a new kind of flanger, modulating the organ music through repeated bars of moanings and meters of bellowings until it swept the chasing barber and pall-bearers into communicable frenzy. (The wives of the men were all at home alone, practicing finger exercises on their private virginals.)

Three men finally interrupted the concert and ruptured the organ, whose wailing sounds died slowly across a scandalized town. The three men then rushed back to the beauty parlor to finish updating their hairstyles. Their dangling styluses, manicured, would continue to play albums of nostalgic victory organ music.

Meanwhile, a crate of old beans used as a continuous spring-drainage supply hut flourished in cities showing a marked increase of commuters from small towns. The new people would have all of their body hair removed before gathering to listen untiringly to hollow dog bark echoes. Hair was a pitfall to be avoided on the road to higher social position, and dog owners injected their pets with acute mange infectants.


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Thumbnail Sketch for Chateau Design

Her poise and grace fooled hardy suitors queueing at her calling door. Along the sandy lakefront: the scattered ruins of ancient picnics, forgotten in sandstorm panic. Nostalgia scholars who study Victorian beach-dining behavior have been frightened by recurrent undertows that spit up large feathery moths. The moths were reported to crawl across the waves to gaze into the reflection of the moon that shone only on the other side of the earth.

Spiral thumbprints were traced to the creator of the castle at the icy edge of the lake. His handiwork was also deemed responsible for half-tone skies over grey mountains that isolate the lake from resort travelers who wooed the princess of the castle. The wooden chair moths were later found to distract the police in a clever design of absurd ingenuity, leading wild geese in a chase across the globe in search of the lunar sphere -- which alone could bring harmony to frozen lake waters teeming with sandy Victorian picnickers preserved in sickbed half-tones.

Other castles were finally erected in accordance with stolen blueprints to appease sightseers who flock to rediscover lost picnic regions along secluded lakesides. The ghost of the beautiful princess hovers statuesquely above new/ancient castle-chateaus, fading even as I draw my pen for one last thumbnail sketch.


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Tube of Bee Pollen

You tapped me on the left shoulder with your sudden, astonishing demise. The latent green stripes on my lavender lapels disturbed your wake, annoying consumer engineers townward. Perhaps this fond restraint will rectify our differences: perhaps the avocado sky will drip on plastic fields: perhaps the lilting tune of bumblebees will sanctify your unearthly presence; perhaps not.


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