Mouthwisdom (November 2013)
with Weaver and Kouns
RW: Met Bug Bite at the fabric care on the trail of tears. Shacking up at the Belvior Phantasy Pharmacy. Simia of Mount Appetite, jade blade snow job. Cue to move a desert. Born and razed in the Splinter Sector. We're buying the dis enfranchise to excise the neutral angel's eyes. Have you got the “spirit” to mange the bone yard, bone head? If you do, spooky trooper, we'll be raking in the THOUSANDS by a fortnight times forty. Wow, I just saw a blade in action. No flak from Flacco. Caught up in a rice riot. Please, just call me Rick n Lickin' Rock n Pop Hudson Hunchback. Or Pepper Waldo. Grow now or forever hold your priest. Zoology of a prodigal bubble blower, of a crackpot sharecropper;; illuminati hot toddy. Rongo bongo hobo room. Crossing my cavities and hoping for the wattle when casting my nets of castanets for carbonated bottles. The left foot preens in the light of the wake. There is no death. There is no seizure. Have I got a gimmick for you to mimic. You've been blessed with the bigotry of a bigamist. When he “ceased” up I knew it was silver and gold. Now you've inherited his golden locks, his gold teeth, his gold standard, his gold rush, his marigolds, his Margo the Mango, his moves, his banana ham his buckets-full. You are o ne ono jac key o honest onanist. I love our good times together today, the three of us, out at the wood pile in Nevada. Call me Goldirocks, just don't call me late for Lynn. If we had half a lime, we'd be out there licking canucks like lizards do. I'd lick a lizard in Albany. I'd cut a rug in Calcutta. Bug Bite gets around. From fabric care to Gimperial Alley to the wiley well, cosmos of cosmetic genetics and lolling as a ten spot. I am a sitting duck in ducktown right now. I take good polish. Hey Pharaoh, I moved the mummy. I don't mean to be cryptic, but please keep it under wraps. The infidel bombed at the cuckolding convention. Our halcyon slang days of taste are over, tartar breath. I'd punch a warbler in Galileo just to see the two of you plus Rory happy again. Like old times. Like earlier today. We sure had it made on easel street. Memories of our mountain climbing claws are really rocking my world. Oh no, Bug Bite lives in the haunt with me. Mouth Haunt. The Guano Gunner's thunderous fecundity. Nikki boom boom and whirlaway on layaway. A brush with Cerebrus' serpentine doggie bone, the curl of the unknown, the unlucky follower. Doleful dolt; dentil tote, doggie bone doggie bone. The Woof Wolf. Four drink max of vitamin mix fumbles radio clinic. Personal stain. Barking for my life under the China Moon. Once a month she reveals her full face. Nerd me a genocide from the neck up. Could you help it?
ZK: Exegesis in Helvetia, bell of the bawl. Brush your tendrils and tender your hoisturizer, horticulture, hormone and Hilal. The gall of the Gauls in Galway grims my glands and hands my Huns twice rerunners knee. And thrice my warmed woven werewithal and thrice pile cringe of Crete and citizen's creed and hedonist's half moon. Harangue me, meringue sea.
RW: Bawl of America: land of the flea and home of the knave. There's going to be a lot of “crier-works” next Fourth of July. Thor is there already, with his weeping peepers.
ZK: Glucose is too close for Lynn's sinsome, winsome withdrawal from White Bird's Castle 'Rassle. Regal rustle, requitals from Harris Hoolie and his harrowing holiday in Bali's breadcasket. Truculent, tenebrous succulent tennis hiss.
RW: I feel like a caged Archangel on the rim of a pizza cusp of purgatory in the mouth of a “dunk the crust punk” diorama. Strife stipend, the stripe end of an imaginary zebra of a Zanzibari candy bar calligraphical Caliph relief team. The Trim One bought the bag.
ZK: Trotter's Trilobitten tummy tumor. Call an ambudance quick or you'll find you'll be all a bone and a bulge “After The Bawl Is Over”. Speaking of Stygia: slink key down the mares; Tao Kern, Caliph of Crimea crows a crumbling Cuckoo as Arch ascends the proselytes prostate. Peking Peeper, the meal of a knife lime, the frill of a strife hind. Roe, roe, roe your doat till lil' Hans bleats “Why me”? Butter otter ought to lye the lilting Lucernian “his”dom of Leek Holloway, almanac of a gun ghost writer. Inositol influx, infearior interior. Intoxicare, Pharaoh and the Mummy is listening to Little Crimes by Rescare Rumination. Right up my Galilee. And another Ming: the dynasty dirge is the scourge of Melanie, a folk singer from the 1960s who had a couple of popular cuts on a prominent record label, Rick. Anything Van Goghs, a Cole Porter sleepy symphony from the drips of Dolly's hello. On a stark, hirsute sty quay with drool stints in Storm's stare.
RW: Grotto of grins.
ZK: Socko and Hornet Freddy.
RW: Had a dream of the Hornet disguised as the Mosquito, lazily hovering in the cross of my eyes. Grotto of Otto. I will make you fishers of fish. One pop gavotte and we'll be getting piggyback rides to and from Church on Sunday on the shoulder blades of Giants. Won't the other members of the congregation be so moved stirred and shaken by our tall tale means of transportation?
ZK: I'll call you late for licks and lambchops in the Lunar Lodge, limbic Battle Ax. They'll till their tattletales and shake their rattlerails until the three snakes of a lamb's spell. “Gold” they'll cry and cremate till Lynn meals and mulls and mauls and the jaguar himself perditions and paws. Drink from the galling Gaul of Gentile. Your lentils will flank flu.
RW: Standing on the rollerblades of giants, watching my figure prune the Finger Hut.
ZK: Cramming the Gilgal into the pea brains of Scions. Rollerglade into the palmy algorithm of an alligator. Waste Taste: “Gobble down our girded garbage. Grab a steal meal form the reel heels.”
RW: All the baby sonar have the baby sonar. I get sick from sonar. I get sick from baby sonar.
ZK: Cacophony of Caiaphas, loosed in the tomb and striking fire in waxen wombs. I reported the hymen and the humdinger and you'll never believe what she shed: a light yellow bunting down the herd grace line and land. Stark lark singing in the dark. Bob White flying toward the light.
RW: Bing bang BOO! Fear beard banter in the canyon of banyan. Bantam, wait for me. My nose is to the grinder. Could you sub for me, Hoagie?
ZK: I'll grinder for you bee hinder and I'll hinder your tender but I won't halt the decline of your “sub”lingual vault. That's a job for “Hello Dali”
RW: Ice floe gin. Mock flog. Dim bulb. Floating rib of Adam's final memory. Honey buncombe musty cockamamie fuss and tussle for Wockenfuss crepuscular cockpits of the heart. That blossom throttler Plinksy “Blitzkrieg” Crimini and his Cock and bull henpecks have come to roost the hams. The “Four Hams” of Frankie Beanie proves the purchasing power of an armadillo's congealed hair cakes on Lassie Morgan's last shower curtain call me plaid if zoo have the bladder. Udderly unbe”weaver”able and becoming dynasty of 101 Earth Sauces playing fastball fleshed on the Pig-me-mailion pinwheel fester, the hot and hoggy trove farm bleached by none other than Kouns and his trusty truffle snouter. Grab the bull by the bollocks. Walking touch brew, coax.
ZK: Listen, little unbeWeaver, I mouth of the Taste Spirit and witness all mouth uncleanliness being cast into Aceldama. Corinth: crow me a crazed and claw my Croesus. Unsheath and unseat my tyrant before the crack of Charas in my pineal pyre. An era of manifestations will overtake the old mouth and you unbeWeaver will see the gift drawings of Cahoon and tree with a troubled tremble.
RW: Brubeck wants his brow beat.
ZK: Well, he can Take Five while I tea off his forehead.
RW: Arthur “Alfie” Lyman wants his lemon lime hymen intact for Bali Wally Haiku Coda Holt. UnbeWeaver and the Foreheads. Ubbe Iwerks, Uri Geller and Ish Kabbible. Umbral hombres of the Orient. Umbilical Evangelists for Vangelis. The Prince of Oak Ridge asked for your number. I said “You rinse some, you Prince some.” Pay the Fiddler on the Hot Tin roof a cockatoo or three for introducing you to the Buddhist lip smacking sunkist tryst in your own backyard. Slick Willy, Tricky Dick, Wet Willy, Franken Fuhrer, Flat Foot, Justice Yellingham, Morgan Garrett, N. Flo Mensa, Floe Mein Frame and Gaspy Gaspar Gaston play the “painter piano”. It is a whooping cough of a hootenanny mamie namby pamby pamper whopper.
ZK: Rick Weaver, my friend is as prim as a primrose, as Slim as a Whitman, as hymn as a Hildegard and as wild as a potato vine. I think I'll call my friend Rick and favor him with a ballad.
RW: A whopper show stopper hop-on-popper dust cropper belly flopper grave robber pineal Dr. dropper plexi-defogger mooger fooger plio-lager hoarse morse clogger with a Cherohala on top. It's a nimrod nightmare of exit-free ecstasy. Absolutely splenda. This ain't my third time in the House of Vinegar...it's my first. Look out for the hook but pray for the blade. Sing sing me a ballad and I'll dance the Sashimi while donning the Donkey head.
ZK: That's splendaid and now that I can swallow the Serpent's spleen and cling to the Chaldean chirice we ought to make a great Boysjoysnoise and clamor because Boy those Sonic Youths are a Splenda hare.
RW: I can almost taste the “red line special” on this avaricious Tennessee Tuesday. It's the only “two for one” I know of.
ZK: Yes Yes Yes Chattanooga Channeler, it TASTES like a quiet village and an enchanted sea if you ask me and Denny. We're a three piece now and I'm writing a book about my experiences: Rick, Denny and me; my uplifting experiences with two fellow rogues of the mouth and long in the teething tithes”
RW: You said a mouthful of mouth wisdom when you took a bite out of crime and found Danbala licking his own gonads. He exlaimed: “That's Absurd. Who ever heard of a jaguar's wages?”
ZK: I'll Reflect your Streetcar in a Golden Eye if you'll Kabibble me to bits and giggle me to shits. Umbrage for Zamfir, unction for Freddie Function adrift on the Ulagala undulation. Uppity Puppity new mage grand stand. Gri Gri on the glean liver, tea pee in the wean wither. When I slithered on my belly into Lynn's lascivious lecture on reptiles, the jaguar himself stood on his hind legs and exclaimed “Adder Boy!”
RW: Brace your bracts, Abraxas, down to the brass tax of the spadix on the awls of spandex. Asks the warbler, Wythe the long face?
ZK: Anabasis your Axel, annihilate your axiom. All's mare in rub and lore.
RW: All's spice in hand-me-corn matador. Welcome Matt to the colicky fold of collop college and hang tight.
ZK: An”ax”imander and the clitus of Hera. Krill your grill because you're getting a little fishy for me, walleye.
RW: Egg and leaf combo. So good floral flub dub rub down. Wade in the donnybrook. Lazy Susan whispers “Snooze-you-lose” Jamaica.
ZK: Sneeze ye please and hair your Krishna. Poke your pike and gull your gird.
RW: I gave Lynn my best wincing face for Pamplinas favors and realized much too late it was Candor not Condor. Hard lotto.
ZK: Have you heard from Doctor P. Ewe about the Lambchop syndrome breakout near Ruby Guals? It's a butter hair nightmare. I'm the bobcat cattle herder, I'm the OHIO oracle. Lawco, lake of forsaken intubation. Incarnate, loom of corporeal transcardio Philemenon hark beat. I tried to show Snake Neck the transbeat from Yucateca but that guy “asped” me to knock it off. I'm likely to put the kabosh on that Clubland Catawba cause Sybil and Simon says that his future is foggy and Fogg TV and fruit of the data “log”ger. I'll staple him to the Silk Road and Mesopotamia his Tricky Massive Attack.
RW: LOL Lafcadio, a short hop to a laugh and a half at VOV prison tatt.
ZK: Videographer? Danse Macabre with the virulent vermin of Vichy and I'd wager your vitals, victuals and vitae on that cause you're due for a “stroke” of good luck.
RW: That's what got me excluded. I went in there to get my shoe repaired and they hostilely hastily pastaly hollered “Give him the boot!” Vinaceous downward viral vindaloo. Free comedy capsules: This day in humor! First bowl cut given, Golden Remy Warp, MIRAGE Snake Neck extends the offer—Fistic Fishbowl for the casual male.
ZK: Your Acts and your Romans led to your species suspension, your Leopardis and lamentations lead to my laugh track and my Bulgarias and boombooms lead to my power “seizures.”
RW: No small feet of Bulgar wheat my whistle; sweet sixteen chapel caught Nikki Vicar crying over spilt Carrboro, bro. Back to the school of hard Knoxville and down the drain. No drain, no Gain, no Brain.
ZK: Chaffs burning and bins of Spanish kite flies. Carrboro can bow an ox, floe an ice and lice my bed birds with a birch bleating “stem bath.” Boy, did I Tatum my taters this etude and did I ever Art my blinding piano by the pale rockets red hair. If you garrote my Groucho, I'll Ides of march your Marx all the way to Bataan's death. Scimitar simian monkeying around in the witch wrench Wednesday all you can eat pig's feet buffoon. I'm as driad as a drone and as moan as a Monad's miasmic menses. Give a reich a rune and anticipate the apostate, causal it's all alchemy to alche me. Pleasure measure: dining on a maithuna Mai Tai with a twist of tryst and hold the mors justi, please. It's Yab Yummy in my Ab Tummy, dummy doll.
RW: Blue Boy is mad because he found out Stardaddy is in hell and Stardaddy is Morgan and Morgan is me and hell is not as fun as driving around in a “mellow mobile” having laughs with friends. I am starting a vicious venture as an electro acoustic guitar.AS I in out in the incus as I will be. Olm me know questions and I will asp youth boys no lye for blind minnie. The blind youth boys of Muncie know how to spoil a good landlocked lady off the blade and into the concave cabochan.
ZK: The forenoon forest path of Franklin's furnace fire; the fistulas and fennel of floralia and the fivefold path. If you're Eurydice that makes me the underworld and the narrowing Nyx drawn on an ancient wooden floor by trembling hands struggling to behave. Form a Fogg TV, form a foresking, form a fistula. Form a Frankie Ocean.
RW: The price is right for Pinko Plinko. Sinking in the lonesome seaweed. Kelp me! The chicken or the chi-chi? Form a blog to foam a loft. A leak in Lynn's loofah. Tee of at tea time. Peeved by greeter's who peddle skin grafts. You don't stand a sporting chance, spectator. Just an hour away from the stock checking hour-my happiest hour-my richest hour. Myopic. My wolf. I can't believe lycanthropy. I dyed it my mane. Deploy a tall pour of Armed Ammo in a “draft” glass, Colonel Crunch because it's a real flask in a pan. Aioli IOU aureole dew drop. I am a trapper keeper. I keep the feelies too. From co-op to coin-op. Photo op-cuddle with the cuttlefish-at Customer Delight Drive.
ZK: The rake of Persephone, the Locke of of John's hillock.