28.10.20

NO ME



NO  ME

 (a play)

 

 the walk

 

E:  You no somethink, for Fiama I put all ma poetriers inside a cushion to rest. And the war prophet Clause Wits too. Here, read ma offspring cod.

 A:  Clause number Thèse: “Tag the camsight lines.” Clause number Tzu: “Plunge the finest word into salt.” Clause number Try: “ Come off before it rises.” Vat diz meet, “Come off before it rises”?

 E:  It’s a kind of fooler. A fal staff fooler in case the opsycho civilimorphs pause the game. The real fooler is dangerous at full rising. This drill is supposed to be a spring, not a doggone nuke.

 A:  Shouldnt we stop with deeze drills? The odders have also their bloody word-wedding coach. I thing now is the right time for us to forge the NO ME. And then shrine it. Shrine and forguest.

 

the lab

A:  Helás, dis termite isnt strainge?

E:  Know. It’s just inaccessible for media ocrities, not strainge. Comon, it’s pure semiosis sugarfree. A feeling.

 A:  I dont no. C’est strainge. Hurryball. A name like a diabolic ferea tale.

 E:  Be nice, try it. The name meets “land of the word-eaters”. And there runs the glory. A land of psilocybinned Liszt, where they harmonized oysters, paraoidês, gaiacybers, influenced by the Himalayas. Unfortunately they used to spoil the accents. Now it seems there R only two survive fours.

 A:  It really tastes like a hi skull. You measure skulls?

 E:  Clause Wits was a colleague. I dont measure ma partners’ skulls, though they always ask me for.

 A: I m eating dis gustin shit just to help your rearsearch. Do not forguest.

 E: Dont swallow, core 'ngrato. Just chew it pianissimo. First 12 times, then 14 and 18. Spit on the Petri.

 A:  Pro-mise en abyme no more seacrets bet win us.

 E:  [smizing] Everythink you vant. Ich bin von Kopf bis Fuß auf liebe eingestellt.

 

 on Kerougharch Road

 

E: Rolleiflex, a billteafool ma chin. Levi & athan. For solo, gruppe, and holestic wild pics. It cannibals nature colours.

 A:  I kant take any peaks et al when on morfine.

 E:  Anythink is posse ball, Madame. You eight a skull, rearmember.

 A:  “Madame” non. Monseñor. O yeah, but I ape a RAF skull.

 E:  O Kay, Monseñor then. You no somethink, I observe the odders quite uau when on morfine. They dont seem so strainge as I thing B-4. I kan see all their past even from a single ketamine stanza.

 A:  I m not a poetrier like thee. I vant add ventures to ma life. Shock and ó. Sea wheels. Do not full your shelf.

 E:  In 6 days und 7 nites, o Señor Tom vai vir armar e Omar vai vir ar Señor Tone.

A: In posse balls. We R in a militar post-modernism age, a spider’s web land, with hopes and chains. No escape. No exitos. Only dissonant mind & body info. Prece pieces bet win souls. Void.

 

 the ship

 

A: [reading] “One must remember to go back step by step.” I m on a boat, mothersucker!

 E:  Haf you seen ma beginnin?

 A:  Your vat?

 E:  Ma book on tribal theories. Kant find it manywhere.

 A:  Call up spirits. Their speech in tongues May help thee.

 E:  Ayeah, god idea. Comon, les have a drink. I hate ships and waters all around ma   boreders.

  A:  Boire. Boire. Boire.

 

 the bar

 E: The words R so wide. Utterly universal in their inner selves. Deeze langrammatical fences, so pathetic. We should haf more freedoom to travel them.

 A: [swaying a bottle of gin] I wish I head known some Hottentots more amusing than you, ma deer.

 E: “Don’t cry for love lost.” Billie Holiday’s circumscription theory about luv.

 A: O theories, theories, the Ories for alluvers. There R so many in this Word. I luv evry word that seems to say, “Please me”.

 *

Maira Parula, NO ME, excerpt, ok to ber 2020.