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.