BENEDICT BIB and the Search for MOUTHJOY with Zack Kouns and Rick Weaver
ZACK KOUNS Whistlerick right in the belly of the beaver, write in the lips of the deceiver that Rickrolls right off the forked tongue of water cress crumbling in rapids of 64 interstate rockrick crushing that guy that died of moonshine mollusk mastication.
RICK WEAVER Chestnuts roasting in an open smilemouth resistant to the back slap of Pendleton West fortress. As told to a Fostex. Sold to the highest Lynner; overwhelming regret in perfect shape across skyways of loony schooners and a dozen flesh offering form the hungry benediction of an egghead named Benedict Bib. The perfect stem=a three-egg amulet. The first egg despairs, the second doesn’t care, the third one laid out ’til sinner’s school graduated to bath talk.
KOUNS I met Benedict Bib in the tiles of an apron stretching across cress and Milkweeds of the munchies of passive aggressive Blue Boys who can’t egress and ingress and ecstasy lilts and Lynns and Luxembourg’s in 19 hundred and line lime Luxor elixir licking Lil peaces of Harry Dice from the crumbs of a tall man’s navel base.
I know a thing or sling about eggs Benedict and derelict and genuflect my influx and fluoride my fever and five my sensations until fingers flux and flue the fire of ferment and foment and petrie dishes filmed with phlox and flue and Philistines flowoverflowfixfoxfunnel.
WEAVER If I licked right through, they’d call me a liar before I lied another lie, undetected by the scrutiny of Pvt. Hamami. She would turn Blue and I’d win the next electrocution.
KOUNS Buffalo bloom, my bleariest bop on the hogging. My weariest flog on the logging. My serious lap of lilting, leering clearing of brambles by a diesel weasel that’s greener than Blue Boy’s yellow fever.
WEAVER Try me a river. My immunity belches forth as I am moving; I am loving. This soft seasoning of the motor bribes a wildcat and a laugh is in bloom. Luigi. A lover in a second act of seasoning marinates the marionettes of Martinique and the Extreme players of the forces of nature.
KOUNS Fred’s flailing, Fred’s wings bleating and bleeding forethought and 4 wings of filial piety and flummoxing feelers firring all Douglas’s and firming all of February’s finfun and larksharks.
WEAVER The burglar belches a carpenter bee they used to call Fred. I walk in the appositive direction to seam his wings with buffalo sauce. Deere knows the drill.
Flummoxist movement of the hurdy-gurdy girdle gurgling grackle fanboy, fan of fanboys, son of sandals, friend to all, rind to fred.
KOUNS I know the burglar by Beefheart and I know the indigent Bee by barium enema and I know Ontological discovery by the tip of Fred’s flapping, fulcrum firming foundations in the fey fussy estate of fossil fuel fetters and fell grants griming grims and Greenbriers. Bleck Bruxelles, tulips trains waffles. Sand all those with feces in their darts, Randall to those Almaniacs that Maccccccccckie the rum strife can serve over Charlotte’s Web and look me in the cries after having a BM over Beatles board games.
WEAVER Grant me three wishes then, wishes of the brow: 1) upturn height to salmagundi, biblio of a syphiliphobe rippin’ a fun riff drain down town whisker. 2) turning over a cough just to melt its fat lip. 3) send me the signal of the syndicate, tall whisperers occupy the owl and its call, its fierce flummox and candy floss.
KOUNS I’ll force you a fish, I’ll millstone a rash but I’ll never ramble you a sassafras until you’ve trampled Westwood’s wrangled barbs of stingray and Link Wray.
WEAVER Once Benedict Bib dunks, I’m no better than a lilliputian olive in the shadows of a Bledsoe canine.
KOUNS Benedict can slither and slank, can wither in rank but when Kundry peels off her boar mask then boombear, loomscare, skol and take a dram of Norwegian knight.
WEAVER I will take a tuft of aquavit; I will puff up ice machines. I will come with four rustlers: it is not my old wish it is my only ode to wishy-washy housekeeping.
Meanwhile, back on planet earth, I find it easy to slather earth sauce on my face and on every wall. An ant in earth sauce is worth two hams in the banana skin. It’s called getting ahead. Or moving forward. Either way, Gerund-imo!
KOUNS Stockades and blockades, Westwood has them in fluoride and flora for fungal typhoid known as Hennylick, NY where my ants fist discovered death. Imposing geranium, frozen titanium furry as Forty Phoenixes rising from the egg flames of eggalitarian egghead Benericks. When I lum the ruycougle of pripppripps regal I rumble and rigrug slender tumbles of RIP Rita Ora.
WEAVER Rita Or a i ota intuit inuit ivi highest Bibber and imBiber. Skittle me this weed-addled skedaddler cadaver raver; weed-le me thistle brisket:
Just when you think you’ll smell the surface of a bot, armed robbery, helium bop. Or taffy or bot. If I lived ever for the plump then fortitude fingers ME as the bad wah which I profess was my intention tagalog. The hidden charms of Havana. The happenstance of nirvana. The drought of Huff. One day I will find Zap’s wild side frustrated and spewing afternoon hydrogen until the Bib lopes it to square one-ground grovel… Eager to hear the sounds of scraping water. The hills are alive with the burlap britches afterthinking journals, stubby britches. Factor in figgy. This is the Portmanto-to of parisian pedagoggling, the tu-tu of Kansas, cut fine, granulated, alas-tic fibbing at the aerator. Carpet diem rug rattler royale sui genericist jam jaguar acystant miff muffler. My name is mayonnaise, my wheat is whole, my loaf of butter, whips the welt of my skoal.
KOUNS Rikki don’t fuse my slumber, fits and phallopian, furs, and femurs, starts and Romes. Hello Caligula, Hello the leaves of the Redbud in Chelsey’s newest crotchbotch, Hello mouth on Orioles and Areolas. I can faux falled fornicate with Chelsey the chesty bell of the bawl but Bergamot bluster and Cussing Custer ne’er did well when it comes to bluster and plum plip porch pilgrims perching on perigrinate psyilocybes pompoming for peachbeach eternities. Spuming sheening spurlock, Burdock of the child rest reels, heeling in the rears, steeling in the peers, gearing in the gleans. Gloucester, gumgut. I know Gloucester like I know worcestershire, which is to say numb Neem necklace nearing in arrears. These are a flu of my Sumerian wings, these sidereal slurs, Ragnar Redbeard’s sluice and slurp Sage magistrate mincing pincers of the “be”ware Aster deflower and deforestation. Tremulous Tulsi, tremors of bacon’s past, memories of Lynn’s cluster lead sake sipple. Trysts and tumtums, mists of tomtoms, wallop whoops fording the great deride. Hum blip beret. The braying, bleating, blubbering, burdensome bladder of Lancelot hidden a quay on Kundry’s crylands. Here’s a Brill Building birth scrounging, a dirge droning purse purging.
WEAVER The origin of the fiddle.
KOUNS I’ll lick for you. I’ll Cush a stealthy Curd in Kurdistan, you will mouth a healthy turd in Turkey. I wish Luscious Lynn wasn’t real.
WEAVER I am a beached blond bonding with the bathing novas.
KOUNS Well, I’m glad I’ve got all night to stay awake and think about that Jaguar whisper “Bring the boys back home” in that southern drawl after I get finished with my big gig. I just hope Lynn is successful in her campaign to make Enoch Academy co-ed and jaguar friendly. I visit that academy in sometimes in my dreams and they teach me how to astral travel and have out of body experiences and jaguars and girls should be able to take a nice little peekaboo too. I never tire of hearing about Lynn and the Jaguar never tires of making reptile references like: “Asp me know questions, I’ll rattler off no lies.”
You’re getting into really deep waters, somebody call a Hambulance. Lynn could teach you a thrice or a Samothracian cult, could leech you a leper, a leopard and a Leopardi longing. Moonlight, menstruation, and earth earth earth earth Lynn. Genitals streaked with excrement and blood Lynn.
|
