Cabot (the innkeeper’s dullard) peeked through a hole in the wall, spying on her and him and his bent-cocked cock. Cabot was a bicycle thief. The shamble leg man knew Cabot, Cabot the addle-minded bicycle thief. Cabot the bicycle thief stole bicycles (the innkeeper’s dullard) Cabot.
Cabot (the innkeeper’s dullard) peeked, spying on her and him and his bent-cocked cock through a hole in the wall. Cabot was a bicycle thief. The shamble leg man knew Cabot, Cabot the addle-minded bicycle thief. Cabot the bicycle thief stole bicycles (the innkeeper’s dullard) Cabot. There is one Cabot for every stolen bicycle, one stolen bicycle for every Cabot (the innkeeper’s dullard). Bicycles have tares and wheels that hum and bleat (Cabot the bicycle thief) stealing stolen bicycles. ‘I had a bicycle, once, with a yellow banana seat sparkly with sparkles’ said the shamble leg man. ‘My granddad greased up the gears with machinists’ oil and a sleeve of old shirt’. Sleeves: torn sleeves. ‘It had a sissy-bar, the banana seat, sown my friends could hold on while I peddled and sped madly mad’. Cabot (the innkeeper’s dullard) stole banana seated bicycles, yellow sparkly sparkles.
Cabot: there is no thieving bicycle thief (the alewife’s commode-pot), no bent-cock. I steal bicycles in my sleep, tares and wheels humming; yellow seats sparkly with sparkles. Cabot is a fig of my (me) imagination, a mere prune. One sews what one seeds. Cabot: Cabot’s cock wallowing (alewife’s commode-pot pitted with stale urine). I stole my first bicycle on a lark; suckling lolling saltlick milk, yellow sparkly. The innkeeper died a most horrible death at the hands of bare-knuckled men; fisticuffed him to a pulp, poor sod bastard dead rotting in peat and blight (the innkeeper’s dullard) nowhere to be found. A simper filament of (me) imagination, and not another word.
The shamble leg man loosened a stone and reshoed his shoe. He shooed a quarrel of crows, a quorum of quail and a gaggle of gaggling geese. He quaked and queried his way down the upside, legs shambling and shimmying, the loosened stone jangling. A horned fowl flew flippantly flapping, its beak bent into a perfect O. He cast his eyes skyward and said ‘ex pluribus abracadabra’ the crows scattering like mice, a beer cap rolling fitfully on the blacktop in front of him. There were drifters in these parts who carried cudgels spore with nails in dog-skin scabbards and wineskins full of calf’s urine. ‘I am a repagination’ said the shamble leg. ‘One page folded into the other’. Life’s curves begin with a withering, typeset set to 27 ½. This is absolute nonsense! Dog-skinned drifters, a cudgels-worth of gimp hoisted over hip and holler. Cabot’s nuisance: a scuttle of crows caw cawing, one leg farad one over the other, a knitting bee gone terribly bad, coulomb decreased by none to nether. ‘These are strange times indeed’ thought the shamble leg man, ‘stranger than affliction’. He stood in the shadow of the Seder’s clock, one eye on the big hand the other on the sun, squinting to make a bead on the littler little hand, the one that tells time in seconds, not days or affliction. At exactly 27 ½ seconds past twelve he let out a scream, the bulb of his nose curling up like a marigold to an onion, eyes two black holes, 27 ½ teeth missing and not an innkeeper’s dimwit in sight.
‘Begin at the begin’ said the man in the hat, ‘start there’. Life’s beginnings begin at the beginning then promptly end. There is no middle, halfway or in between, but just an almost there but not quite, a somewhere.
Cabot (the innkeeper’s dullard) peeked, spying on her and him and his bent-cocked cock through a hole in the wall. Cabot was a bicycle thief. The shamble leg man knew Cabot, Cabot the addle-minded bicycle thief. Cabot the bicycle thief stole bicycles (the innkeeper’s dullard) Cabot. There is one Cabot for every stolen bicycle, one stolen bicycle for every Cabot (the innkeeper’s dullard). Bicycles have tares and wheels that hum and bleat (Cabot the bicycle thief) stealing stolen bicycles. ‘I had a bicycle, once, with a yellow banana seat sparkly with sparkles’ said the shamble leg man. ‘My granddad greased up the gears with machinists’ oil and a sleeve of old shirt’. Sleeves: torn sleeves. ‘It had a sissy-bar, the banana seat, sown my friends could hold on while I peddled and sped madly mad’. Cabot (the innkeeper’s dullard) stole banana seated bicycles, yellow sparkly sparkles.
Cabot: there is no thieving bicycle thief (the alewife’s commode-pot), no bent-cock. I steal bicycles in my sleep, tares and wheels humming; yellow seats sparkly with sparkles. Cabot is a fig of my (me) imagination, a mere prune. One sews what one seeds. Cabot: Cabot’s cock wallowing (alewife’s commode-pot pitted with stale urine). I stole my first bicycle on a lark; suckling lolling saltlick milk, yellow sparkly. The innkeeper died a most horrible death at the hands of bare-knuckled men; fisticuffed him to a pulp, poor sod bastard dead rotting in peat and blight (the innkeeper’s dullard) nowhere to be found. A simper filament of (me) imagination, and not another word.
The shamble leg man loosened a stone and reshoed his shoe. He shooed a quarrel of crows, a quorum of quail and a gaggle of gaggling geese. He quaked and queried his way down the upside, legs shambling and shimmying, the loosened stone jangling. A horned fowl flew flippantly flapping, its beak bent into a perfect O. He cast his eyes skyward and said ‘ex pluribus abracadabra’ the crows scattering like mice, a beer cap rolling fitfully on the blacktop in front of him. There were drifters in these parts who carried cudgels spore with nails in dog-skin scabbards and wineskins full of calf’s urine. ‘I am a repagination’ said the shamble leg. ‘One page folded into the other’. Life’s curves begin with a withering, typeset set to 27 ½. This is absolute nonsense! Dog-skinned drifters, a cudgels-worth of gimp hoisted over hip and holler. Cabot’s nuisance: a scuttle of crows caw cawing, one leg farad one over the other, a knitting bee gone terribly bad, coulomb decreased by none to nether. ‘These are strange times indeed’ thought the shamble leg man, ‘stranger than affliction’. He stood in the shadow of the Seder’s clock, one eye on the big hand the other on the sun, squinting to make a bead on the littler little hand, the one that tells time in seconds, not days or affliction. At exactly 27 ½ seconds past twelve he let out a scream, the bulb of his nose curling up like a marigold to an onion, eyes two black holes, 27 ½ teeth missing and not an innkeeper’s dimwit in sight.
‘Begin at the begin’ said the man in the hat, ‘start there’. Life’s beginnings begin at the beginning then promptly end. There is no middle, halfway or in between, but just an almost there but not quite, a somewhere.
