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Herewith the voice within as a whisper upon the wind prattling against assumed windows in pendulum June, a diatribe for a dire tribe in a sad corner of earth where things that drop from above aren’t Bananas! Bananas! Bananas! Let’s call it a rapture in which I swam across, I jumped across for you, but at a certain cataclysmic slip from before a June ever after, I decided that the ontology of human r-e-s-p-e-c-t compels m-e to break into your flat, the one you keep as a prop to scaffold your shadowy existence (basketted with rather reluctant facts about the cup of your hand).  I resolved to insert a banana (like the one that glided dead giveaway too Skype far up your bum) into selected titles in your antiquarian collection which you store in your fridge and your oven as you never cook and eat only behind frosted glass outside his theatre gossip in a two hundred meter circumference one can walk as one peels a lifetime before eating it.  I delight in the squishing of saccharine fruit between the pages of Middlemarch or The Bitter Tears of Petra Von Kant, and other things the size of the casket our sneezed life together has been condensed to (as for avoidances, how I avoided the brush of Dracula’s cape in the front row, or with a kindred spirit in what would have been my Renaissance stage debut the insignia of the sewer dwellers, or the petal of Narcissus at the helm of a pitch forked assembly of tempera-toon vegetables in His Kingdom Come, or the vomitarium of the Yellow Witch, or the kinks of Munch showering OKs, or best supporting actor nominations issued by he who shall not be named aka prospero-ek-kom-binne-ou).  As the potassium puree bubbles over, helmuting these novels I reserve the skins, no good now as bookmarks. 

 

And I take these membranes as I bow in inmost sincerest muesli cordiality and lavish them before your feet in those shoes, his foot in those shoes, the footpath Jedi cloaked in inner leg insomnia, the insipid footpath leading to a house where the maximal point of criticality is Umberto Eco and the aesthetic aspirations settle at Terry Pratchett and endless Berliner Ensemble pastiches like the outlines of clouds clouding fuck yous and the whiff of a garden like hot cross cum, and where ad infinitum director’s commentaries Kalahari dispensed signal that he is waiting to die and I say how soon motherfucker and YES this is vindictive writing, but I can only watch and learn from the pathetic and cling wrap the stems of things put into smoothie-makers that never come out, in want of something fresh as now I dream of hip failure, cataracts and prostrate cancer, as you do, and you have, in that house of servitude and sacrifice.  And I was asked to pen this entry as I’d like to slip onto a tros or two, but Dear Reader you have orifices too!  So from the frescos of complacency I hear the prophecy: 

 

Been-eina! Been-eina! Been-eina! 

Been-anus! Been-anus! Been-anus!

 

And at this embalming I came along, I wrote a song for you, and all the things you do, and it was all: 

Sweet sixteen 

Erection curvature correction surgery,

Orang-utan, finger puppet Deuteronomy, 

(uhm, may the elderly never marry he),

Shakespeare, velvet pencil case,

we boomerang-frisbeed through outer space!

Goodbye card!, pay telephone!, 

I’m on my own 

 

Georgia O’Keefe Bananah! Lee Lozano Bananah! Judith Bernstein Bananah! 

let me put on my slippy skirt and dance, and say, Dear You-Know-Who-Whoop-Dee-Dee-Do-Doo-Oe-Two-Through-Shoe-Numberslietoo-Fuckyourpridetoo-Youaintnobrother-Youaintnodesciple-Youaintnofriend-Iknewyoursecretsnigga-Bitcheveryhtingisyourfault-You

 

: please step forward 

 

Abri de Swardt

‘NAHS (an instance in B grade)