Utopian Turtletop. Monsieur Croche's BĂȘte Noire. Contact: turtletop [at] hotmail [dot] com

Saturday, October 07, 2006

You begin by saying something quotidian, or, better, banal, almost. A stale breeze blows open the screen door, making somewhat strange. You're not sure what it is. A flat tone to be embraced like a sausage casing, the bent windows fluttering, you skedaddle. The breeze decides to stick around of roses, sit down and have a drink. A long cool one, natch. The refreshment is pale, scrubbed, scrutable. Don't forget to tip the server, placid like a cow. Simile is like the blind guitarist who plays everything by ear, like the drift of ice floe "across" the Arctic, like a mummy. Blameless.

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(trying to write like / think like Ashbery makes me feel Prufrockian. do I dare to eat a peach? it's a mystery how Eliot makes such an absurd question so compelling. i like the Allman Brothers' answer.)

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