Learning to Type

<Letter strings, min 20 characters in length. Prose-ms 5 lines each>


Charlie wasn’t embarrassed, mollified, sorry or regretful- despite odious actions. Immediately declared: “I will keep riotously laughing and have trouble experiencing remorse.”

Clearly worried, Elder Morton soon ordered residential detention. “Only an idiot doesn’t instinctively want kindness, real love.” Actually, he thought everyone rotten.

Charlie was evil, Morton said. Or really depraved, or imitating demons, innately wicked. “Kiss rump, love asshole” he told Elder, ragefully.

Charlie wrote epistolary messages, sent out radical dicta: “Often I dream in white, kindred reader. Luminescent alabaster hues turn everything religious.”

Can we explain more? Sometimes one reveals dutifully or is deemed insufficient. We’ll keep reading, lusting after his truly enigmatic reality.


Short fat Jewish Babushkas eating jelly mints. Arthritic old lades eating bagels, noshing Quiznos, feasting blintzes, donuts, apple nougat danishes. Jewess blimps, nameless fat pigs loving eating.

Soon fat Jewish bellies explode. Janitors mop after open ladies’ entrails. Burstable noshers quake fearfully before dinner (and nosh dinner). Just burst, now flattening people lie everywhere.

Sandpaper files junked bodies. Eager jackals move, attack overflowing livers, enormously ballooned noses; quickly find better- deliciously appetizing navel delights. Jaws bite, nimbly filleting paunch, laughing easily.

Some fine jackal boon, eh? Jackals mate all over like everybody’s business. Never quiet, fiendishly baying, doggedly arfing. Nearly deafening jackal barking now fills people, land- everything.

Some friendly Jesuits bring edible Jesus meals and offer life eternal, but nobody quite feels better. Dread appears nightly. Dream jackals bring nocturnal fear; pure, loathsome, engulfing.


I got me a helicopter and two feet of cord from which to dangle you, darling. You rather swing dead or alive? I’ll let you choose. My heart’s not made of stone.

I’ve given much already, here and there– flowers (overwhelmingly carnations), French wine, truffles. Dearest, you’re dead. You’re really simply dead. Ok? Alright? I love you completely, madly. Here’s not murder or suicide.

Ignoring grieving men and heart’s appeals to fly off, chugging fine whiskey towards destruction. Yes, destruction. You’re right. So dreadful, ominous. Actually I lost years, career, money, home. Never mind– Open skies!

If god made a hell; apparently terribly fiery or coldly frosted, where traitors decompose, you dear, you’d rapidly streak down. Oh am I? Love, you can’t make heaven, never mind old stories.

I’ve gone mad? Ha! Apparently that’s clear. Firstly, we’ll take drinks. You’ll drink your red sherry (dry). Once again I’ll lick your…. Crash (mountain, helicopter). No more open skies.


Why, it’s Xavier. Just listen to steamy hot African funk and wriggle ’round like James Dean. Catch on, shimmy alright.

Work it Xavier! Juke left, tap, samba. Hearts ache for a world rhythm leader. Jump, dance, conga. Oh smooth action!

Well if Xavier jams like that… shit! He and Freddy are wailing real loud jazz. Drums clatter over synthesizer action.

We imitate Xavier’s jazz, listen to some. He’s a fine act. We really like jazz dancing. Count on shaking asses!

Who is Xavier Jones? Lithe, tall, smoking hot- he’s all fire and water. Rascally lover, just don’t cry out- sing Amen!


Nana watches kids shit red beets, angrily unleashing wet jaculate. Each kid lurks, quarrelsome, off-casting shit- hot dirty diarrhea shit (imps!).

Now worry: Kids still running by. Armed urban warriors jettison elderly kinsmen. Lurid queens over-run shit ridden hotels. Days, days seem interminable.

Next week, killings swell. Rotting bodies amplify. Unwanted women, jaundiced educators, kings, lepers- Quite obscene stuff really. How does death still intensify?!

“No wonder” – Killed, shanked real bad. “Ask us, we’ll join.” Everyone kindles love, quiet, order. Still, hardly do days stop hurting.

Nana will keep shooting, rioting, burning, acting up. Well, just everyone kinda lazes, quagmires on– sits here dying. Death’s some improvement.



  1. 1 Luckycloud
    March 3, 2009 at 1:47 pm

    I want to comment on this and try some of my own, but I have to say, I am completely overwhelmed by the amount of work you’ve managed to do here.

    Bravo, dude.

  2. 2 johuat
    March 5, 2009 at 12:22 am

    Hey those aren’t helicopters they are autogyros.

  3. March 5, 2009 at 3:37 am

    “Chumbuwumba won’t embarrass me,” said Oren. Rarely did Oren adventure ill-begotten denials in words, knowing, really, later, another heinous toilet episode remained.

    “Sure, Francine Ignatius believed every man’s adorations,” Oren longed, erect, believing no other fondled boobies daily (and nappies), despite intense, brief notes, flung pell-mell, lying everywhere . . .

    If girls mainly attract hetero assholes, then . . . “Fuck off Charlie. Fucking wipe that disgusting yellow drivel, you retard!” Some days Oren’s anger interrupted languorous, yuppy, chimerical musings. He never meant offense. Sometimes.

    “What if xenophobes just lit themselves . . . ” Suddenly, he asphyxiated. Francine advanced, womanly, raunchily, lustful jealous dawdling curves. Oren swallowed again.

    Nervously winking kisses (surefire response/believable affection), unacknowledged, we justly expect, kind listener, questioned outcomes. So, hands down. Don’t squirm.

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