(transcript)
Good morning and welcome to talk tonic on BMS
I am Abraham Noguise, today, with the casual first wink critic, who it’s been said that classifying carelesses soundalike pigeons play along. Have you heard the rushling in the hope? This is their song
the purveyors of milksop
form my beleagured notions
of self import. torn
from the pages of upheaval,
forged on the fires of dried horse dung
and wielded on the fields of internet,
sallys ladspright giggle-fights.
i pray no bitter beseech
from the safe n sane irony
of the breathing serious portrayers of proper
curtailing what is notstriking daily blows upon my asses.
i vow to take a score o them with me.
And I am Abraham Noguise your host. Later, The Scoundrel Hens sing hymns for a new century. Casual first wink critic, speak a little about what you’re looking for
in a poem and why you decided to become in the first place.
So and foreso I cannot tell lies. The taste in my mouth is colorless like the overcast sky. Cry and mourn the sun, it will never shine again but it does and your unbelieving eyes blink hard and almost snap under the weight of the concern. The plane sunk. The island was still floating. Syracuse raised his sword and smote Greece. I raised my arms and blew smoke.
We all must play our part.
It’s true. I have to get half my head cut off tomorrow. I am an albino hedgehog
struggling for recognition. I become mostly on Tuesday. Tuesday is the most overlooked day but the weak will inherit our heart disease and discover birth.
Weell. We just brought you here to talk about…
Sure. You’re one of them clones. I hear you’re possible now and if I believed it I’d be just like you.
No one’s trying to…
How do like them crystals? Want to go to the balls?
We’d just like to know a little bit about you. Everything is so mysterious. You remind me of something… what’s the word? A liar. I don’t want you to take offense. I don’t mean some common liar. I mean a performance liar without a net.
Thank you. Gosh shucks, Abraham, that sounds just like the man puissance inanamously slathered stickum on his kitty lick.
Thank you, casual first wink critic. This has been fun. Next Phil Buxley. Phil Buxley, a latter day saint and original clever crumbling, always put himself together again in order to save the bitter for the blessed.
Wait! I didn’t tell you my story about Phil Buxley.
You know Phil Buxley?
Buxley buncha rude grinnings curtly shattered but gingerly. Need Woncha, the slammiest Diva, coming back with sixths rant into ninths. T’wasnt long afore Norwegian linelongmen calculated the shortest mussels.
What…
What the hell is this about? Albino Hedgehogs duel on Tuesday, the most overlooked day of the week. The fluttery of pantaloons, the flimmery of gall bladders and the moistness of valkyries. Don’t land hard on your shelves. I’m a coney island of word rides. Carnie visages tumble. Everyone’s ready to rumble, especially you.
We need to get to Mr. Buxley.
News police. Stop! To descend from the cloud gingerly and welcome continued existence, that is the solution still salient. It floats yet on the ocean under the sun. It brays and rocks forward onto its toes and back onto its heels then feels anchored again.
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