"Crassing From Ashid" And Other Logolongonenamorations

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'Crassing From Ashid"


. . . and there were times, truly rulelost and lucidiferous times when the food was so glad it leapt into our mouths with alliterative sighs and euphonic tonics. Whilst silkily synasthesiac and sibilant our serotonin cascaded over neuron falls, raising a rainbow mist of endorphins.


We grokked 'God', and deconstructed our conditioning awash in insights resplendent with glosses recently transcended, and inculcated conditioning overcome.


We were "coming down", but not brought down by anything "reality" had handling our perception's deceptions. The "illusory nature of Maya" was made quite clear and the fear of ego dissolution dissolved as sublimated 'lizard brain' 'breath-of-fire's.


The interludes between 'being' and 'non-being' pulsed with portents and import, while mundanity crept like a leprous mist upon our dancing eyes and soring synapses,


Yet 'the trip' encompassed a gallimaufry of gamuts with lucidity dripping from every pores, whores there we were for the leaping faith we found every one of those '70s 'survival filter' free mornings time and again, our realescence ritualized: 'chickening' the sun awake, high in the Berkeley hills:


'Crassing from Ashid'. - J Thrasher, July 2013


OK folks, now that the kids are in bed, and I've had a short nap, I feel the need to wax eloquent in an obstreperously (almost) obscene fashion. So if the following piece makes little immediate sense in scansion, try just pronouncing the syllablestrings aloud, and you should be then well invested in this, a fine example of my logomania.


MR. V’S ONANOMANIA

Pound on, wonderbunswomen !

The future is about to come crashing down
on your seminalien Socraticed concupiscience:
gobs of bluecheeseviralslimeswallowing
sumshucksters circle revenently ‘round the women’s bidet
for a just a whiff of vintagestiff deathlustcurdcrust.

[ . . . meanwhile,, in an adjoining abbatoir,
carmelized all-iris-eyes shining with:
“Love me ‘cause I can lick my own, slick”; her ogleobsessed bloatedbratwursthunghusband
was whanking furiously on his priapic principles,
diddling with the livefeed display
where his wife was splayed and playing, plying her suckcesspool sublimnanalwitherkneeling succubusiness
whilst he watched, wondering who would get off
thisincarnatiedyad dharmaweal fistfirst . . . ]

‘Snatcwhoreorally, carnalicklewdin on this The Kid wasnot.
In Seminalaryan school all they had tauthemabutt booty
hardonly swerved to cunfewes him,
so he neversuspeckerheaded a thing,
banalthewile the massturdebaiting pimpherinhell
washaving herscrewineveryoneoncue, druggedandfrugged, whenever he could, consequimsays be dammed. Gofrigurs.
Anall this took f’revher to fingerout, buttwhim headiddled tit, tolerant hey new twat was twat, so nutbesotted gnomewhorewashe, she shed “whank who’s berrymunch” hand they wend their hairy ways.

The Kid’n’er leftownan lovived awiledinsin enemafarther
outinthewayback untrying two hurts to make amends
till atlassed they true grue apheart teachotheransplit.
Amoral? . . . dumbtotryno . . . I guess the testis:

en crudite verite. - J Thrasher, 1996


And then there is lambent logorrhea:


. . . and so that’s the story of how I was vested with the Bukowski Chair at the WWW Univerity Of “n”th Dimensional Creative Neuraethiology© Physics. I passed my Orals with a rather lacklustre (I felt) 10 hour recital of my Onaneopus©: “Moribundant Museschatology©” (shortform); and was subsequently elected Salutightorian© of the obligatory Grand Piano Vomitory. But, needless to say, I digress.


Anyway, so, when the Angelic Host (Luciferian Rebels inclusive) manifestly decloaked on 9/9/99, and the ensuing ‘World Tao-Zones Index’© plummeted, my wetware startup company ThrashArt© went cortex-up, AND, then, my 1+?+? year Marriage Contract with ‘Celeclonal Drew Barrymore(©)#427’© was terminated in its third month for nonpayment of premiums, I felt pretty low. Lower than a dysmounted© HOLOSIMM on a melted microchip, I tell you true. Nevertheless, I rented a cheap cubi next to the downtown ‘Toke-It-Topium’© pissoir and dug in my plasteelheels, rationing my expenditures and flailing frantically, round the 10 hour metriclock©, with the ‘waldo(©)trol’© of my cubi’s holographic V-keyboard, trying to spewout enough CDopy© pusillanimous persiflage (at ¥1,000,000/word@Uscale) to keep me in tofusteaks, and trying to transmute my melancholy into something resembling remuneration. Transcribed pain always pays mohbettah bucks, brauae.


It was about that time, if you will recall, that President Hanks, just back from a State visit to Neowobblyville©, capital of the L-5 Republic, gave his now infamous “Religeosity-Industratareal Simplex (type XII)”© speech, which, I might add, was a freelance collabberation© of William Safire(©)wareAI23© and yours truly, and all heaven broke loose.


Feeling the heat of the Nutluddite© Fringe’s Basque ninjas on my exculpatory trail, I had my trendy Maoriyogibear-facitattoo© redone with a more inconspicuous mtlflkechatoyantGuernica-epicreep©, and decided to go hang out at ClubMadHedonism© Bayonne for a while, under a psuedonominative© personality rented from gNom-De-Plumes-R-Oui©.


Things just got stranger and stranger though. I ran into my 43rd wife there, sporting new mams (she, not me), and a new beau (some codpiece-enhanced crackreek© CPA from Tierra Del Fuego North©, with a contiguwuss© eyebrow and betelnutrotted© plasteeth), at the nightly ‘JackoffJill Disco’©; humped them both perverunctoreally© (for Deco-rhum’s© sake) and ended up whipped and wayoverhung© at the Club’s Breakfastorgybar gimme-Buffet© trying to choke down a plate of ‘MagnoliaThunderpussy(©)Pooptarts’© and fresh jizcream©, while unSteadmanly dodgering© the OTTOmaided© cat-o-mime-tails© wilding Elviituvla’s© that were working the buffetline.


It was then that I had my now much valleywho-Op-ed© epiepiphany©, in an effuallgent© flash of agenbitinwitsitu©-IRMWsckt©-shortedtoground-threw-brainspam© so perspirinvidiouscicacious© that if froze the Synthlymph© in my stunned and reeling hydro-enSETHalamic© AIemplants©!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! - :


. . . “THE BANNED”©!!!!!!!!!!!!


I HAD TO PUT “THE BANNED”© BACK TOGETHER AGAIN!!!!!!!!!!


I was on a MISSION FROM COD!!!!!! I had regained my Guerilla WittgenSteiner© cummingsynsenessence© of NOHthrupFryedlike© centracontraility© of mythooze©, and myonaninkarnakitive© concupissantequiproseleGaiaSet-E©!!!


!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!GNARLYASSFASTANDSLIPFINFREECOOLDOODY©!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!


WAYRADITWAS, and well, the rest is herstory, as y’ll know, but those were theodoronodaze© my frskens, and that was how it all CAymendooBBing@. I gHesse© chew jest ad two Bea “ARThiere”©, don’cha’gnome©, don’cha’gnoumenon©! It’s just like Tiny Dr. Tim and/or Gandalf said, longague© in Fairway Park: ‘We’ve already won, all that’s left is the moppin’ up.”! The viewture will be shapesifted by GrindingrungrunniongrinninAOLollywaillin© young ThrasheRs with wetwirednetskateboards©.


{IMNSHO, there’s no reasonably probable [IOW: none now having greater than what I calcululate© to be an 11% (±2%) chance of consensocioccurrence© (percentages having permutatively decreased in conformance with the vaticinaderivation© of a geomatriaxially© continuiguous© AINcontraverticestringfractal-inaccessationablequationmodel© since ‘65)] bifurconcatenation©/line-of-’futurehistory’-force-vector-sum that will escape the substantive influence of of the 60’s, so get over it, already, all you fundittoheads and nostalgia buffs.} Progress, don’t repress or regress. ‘YAH don’t need TA wHETherman, for ‘lo, ‘WITCH-WAY’ this wind blows.’} - J Thrasher, 1985 );{>


Namaste', all.