rost•ra•lité
L’été, elle reste, tête dressée vers les brèches d’enfer percées entre les
mélèzes de Megève, empêtrée en ses rêves de lettres:
“Les denses péchés,” émet Brecht, “révèlent ce qe les messes qêtées recèlent de mésententes.”
Perec prend, presqe, le revers de ce thème, et prétend qe “les mèches qe vendent les prêtresses d’Hermès prélèvent ce qe les fesses ghettées de déesses précèdent.”
Cette pensée ébréchée de Brecht, et cette sentence écervelée de Perec, récréent ce verset qe Verne te lèghe précédemment:
“Les rêves célestes se lestent de ce qe lèchent les sens terrestres.”
“Je m’énerve de ces lettres empestées!” se pète entre ses dents crevées Sterne, le mécène de cette fête. “C’est les fentes nettes et serrées de belles ménesses, les nénés fermes et replets de pépées effrénées qe je préfère! Ce qe je déteste véhémentement, c’est les emmerdements de clercs empêtrés, les excréments de bêtes lettré(e)s!”
rost•ra•lity
He sleeps, Hermes the fences’ keeper, the herdsmen’s defender, the clever ephebe’s preserver.
Between sleep’s deft REM jests (the restless flesh sleep skews), he sees her, Hebe the pretty teen wench, the serene yet severe, reckless yet respected, feckless yet esteemed, messy yet revered, never neglected temptress.
He sees her green eyes’ steely Lethe, her sleek cheeks’ heedless redness, her keen esthete’s teeth, her scented leveret’s neck, her replete chest, her gleby ewe’s belly, her slender deer’s legs, her svelte elk’s feet.
He senses the sheer revelry her tense sweet sex pledges, reqwests, expects.
She extends her gentle gender, her zesty cheer, her terrene kerf to every breed she meets; she tempts shrewd gentlemen, petty lechers, meek shepherds, reverent clerks, lewd serfs; she blesses even the wretchedest street-sweeper.
He deletes her dress, her jersey, her breeches. He feels her nest, pets her ferret, sqweezes her stem, tethers her eel.
She mewls, she bleeps: hen’s peep, wren’s tweet, egret’s screech.
He hews her velvet veneer, severs her evergreen yew tree’s gendered jewels. He segments her beetle’s shell, her emmet’s helmet.
She begs, “Yes, yes, yes!”
He stretches her reed, wedges her cleft, shreds her fleece, eschews the French letter reverent Helen tendered when he screwed her. He smells smelt’s phlegm, perch’s rennet, eft’s ether.
She beseeches, “Yes, yes, yes!”
He tests her, he enters her, he screws her.
She yells, “Yes, yes, yes!”
He spews semen; her tender dewy nether vessel bleeds sere the erect scepter’s seed. She sqweezes, he sqwelches. He belches, he recedes, he wetly sleeps.
Greedy, she weeps. Yet she’s exceeded herself, exceeded her expected strength: she whelps Demeter, redeems her qween.
- Schizomythological clitalysis of the author’s text (SCAT)
- Elle reste
- Girl sips drink. Gin fizz. His drink is Irish whisky. Girl thinks, I’m high, I’m tight, I find his hillbilly kit intrighing. Kiss? His lips kiss girl’s lips. Girl’s lips kiss his. Girl strips. Dimity dirndl, scrim shift, flimsy slip. Girl strips him. Knit kilt, silk shirt, drill tights. His lips kiss girl’s lips, chin, ribs, tits. Girl’s lips kiss his. His lips kiss girl’s wrists, hips, thighs. Girl’s lips kiss his. His lips kiss girl’s clit. Girl’s lips kiss his dick. Lick dick. Lick clit. Girl thinks, I’m his wild child, I’m his frisky chick, I’m his kinky bint, I’m his virgin bitch, I’m his swiving witch, I’m his willing victim in riggish mimicry, sixty-ninish bliss. His lingwistic phiz limns girl’s bifid qwim. Girl thinks, I’m jiggling his figs, I’m licking his dick tip’s slit, I’m cinching him with my slinky lips, lightly biting him, giddily nibbling him, slimily mincing him, swirling, circling, skimming, limiting his crisis with my wily skin tricks. His dirty pig’s digits drill girl’s brimming briny shiny iris. Girl thinks, I’m distilling his rising trickling liqwid spirit, mingling my spit with it. His glib gills fillip girl’s intrinsic yin. Girl thinks, I’m inciting his lithic plinth, I’m infringing his livid linchpin, I’m indicting his mighty divining stick, I’m milling him silly, I’m diving in. His grimy griffin rims girl’s rigid pink pistil’s brink. Girl thinks, I’m milking him with my fist, I’m drinking his bright jizm, I’m givingly girdling his living girth with my hiving hind’s instinct, I’m dizzy. His drifting strigil imprints girl’s winning rind with distinct sigils, plights girl’s slim trim firm minikin with spicy insight, instills girl’s birth-gig with infinity. Girl thinks, I’m writhing, I’m finishing, I’m smiling, I’m wiping my lips, I’m whistling, I’m singing, I’m kissing his chin. His lips kiss girl’s lips, rimy with rich spindrift. Girl thinks, Shit, is this finch shit I’m sniffing? Is this licit? His chin drips with my viscid swill. I kiss his lips, fishy with my limpid sibyl’s ink. I think, Will grisly gingivitis visibly inflict his inviting grin with sickish indignity? Rhinitis smirch my impish mirth?
- Mésententes
- Mis d’incisif bikini gris (slip si riqiqi q’il inscrit zizi), chic tif distinct (y gît bibi bis), ni fils d’ici (vid. ifs, pins, iris, lis, lin, pics, pipits, picris), ni titi primitif d’infinis midis (il y vît ibis, sirlis, indris, drills), ni vizir hindi, ni biffin sikh, ni vil fritz, ni viril G.I., il dit in pidgin (sic: il fit fi d’infinitifs) q’il vint ici d’indivis mirs, q’il y fît fi d’incivils flics, fît tintin d’indics hircins, q’incipit il, dit “Crispin,” fit fric in ring (sic), q’il y tint crincrin, fit tir, inscrit gimmicks, mit simili grigri, prit grisbi, fit pipi, prit lit. Il rit, “Hi, hi, hi.” Il dit q’il fit tilt I midi: hic, fini. Pwisq’il tint fin pif, fit-il distinctifs drinks d’instinct: vin, gin, litchi. Frit-il blinis, bricks, riz, pili-pili. Prix? Six intis/dish. Qwid zinzin bikini gris? Il dit q’il fit sit-in in Chili (sic). Il dit q’il prit flirt d’instit bi I midi in lit (sic). L’instit bi fit indic hircin; l’incivil flic vint. Il tint stick, il fit tir. Clic. Il dit q’il fit vif pli instinctif. Il prit pic, vis, stick; il fit cri. Hic, bris, fini. Ci-gît l’incivil flic; ci-gît l’indic hircin. Il fit tri: ni brin, ni cil, ni nid; ni frichti, ni fil, ni lin; ni biffin, ni chichi. Q’il tînt bikini gris, si (string, slip riqiqi); q’il tînt bibi bis, si. Il dit q’il prit skiff, q’il fit trip. Il rit, “Hi, hi, hi.”
- Cette pensée, cette sentence, ce verset
- Christian Bök, Eunoia, Toronto, Coach House Books, 2001 (a book our author read in 2009 and may have subconsciously, i.e., schizomythically, rostralized, or rostralicized, words, themes, phrases, style from).
- Belles ménesses
- Osons nos looks, donc, y offrons porto, bock, grog, bortsch, hotdogs (d’orozo, porc, otomys), rôts (d’orthodon, coq, oryx), bonbons, scotch. Nos groovy gotons — Coco Corso, Oryx Ophrys, Chorro Lotto (soy yo!), Flor Phlox, Bjork Boston — y font porno non-stop, y sont vos prompts sorts. Ordonnons, donc, nos oblongs polochons, tondons nos tors fonds, portons nos mors d’or, collons nos onglons d’onyx, y sortons hors gonds! Y font bond, vos mols os — morfondront trop? Non? Bon! Ôtons nos ponchos, polos, frocs, smocks, donc, y montrons nos ronds lolos (rotoplots hors-sport), frottons nos bons corps, fonçons nos cons forclos, montons nos complots. Grooms, lords, boys, profs, prolos, snobs, rodomonts, tontons y fondront pro domo, y confondront nos pompons profonds, nos sots fronts lors q’Oryx, Coco, Chorro (soy yo!), Bjork, Flor mordons vos rococo troncs, tordons vos rognons poltrons, pompons vos zobs fort longs, grognonnons, ronronnons — nos gros cochons y font top blowjob, non? Bof! Y ont clos tôt? Y on rompt? Opposons, donc — q’y ont tort vos mots morts, q’y ont tort vos propos ords! — y on pond gnons. Chopons pognon, gobons trognons, odorons phlox, croton, compost, dormons, ronflons.
