Millions of Mouthtalk: The "TASTE" Chronicles (October 2013)
with Weaver and Kouns
ZK: Daddy doesn't die my bean, not as long as he has his two initiates mouthing for him. Also, I have someone new on the team.
RW: Crybaby times for crybaby crimes. Tearful remorse has run its course. Wish for the main dish because the captain is cooking. Quite the surprise for the peppies. Unfortunately, I won't see the seafarer's bulb because I'll be busy breaking into homes with a sham dodger and a curious fire. Unfortunately they willed Frank into looking for me first. I was taken completely by surprise. Frank and Fred and Shane up to their nose tricks.
ZK: Stone Bone: “Smart in the teeth” Ah, you lucky boy. You've got the job. You're Lynn's new Jaguar. It doesn't pay well starting out but most jaguars don't even get paid. Luscious Lynn's from old money, play your cards right and you'll have more dead crows than you can shake your salsa steak at.
RW: Bite faked a fear mouth then bit a ring off. I'm all ears and thumbs, math daddy. I just flung my first fib to Hattie Harvest.
ZK: She needs to bring those grains in. Get somebody out there with a bullwhip. She wouldn't know the truth if it licked her in the mouth.
RW: Her Child Ham kept its promise. The funny farm is ours now, Blade. The clown hassles for power. Tear feeding. Jack Vest? Who the heck?
ZK: Just a laughing little centipede, hundreds of legs moving in different directions.
RW: Magpie Valley. I poured oil over our grains. That was after I poured earth sauce over the earth. It's worth its weight in mold. I'm stuck in a hollowed out honeydew with a grab bag of hickory sticks in Chattanooga. I'm letting Huff do the rest of my life for me. He's got a hoof and a clown nose disguise.
ZK: (No suit. No socks. My new dressing style is business nude.)
RW: At the sock store.
RW: I love for the peppy times. Playing as you and burning your suit. Reading the good book. It's a hit.
ZK: I drink out of your hair. Slumdrum hair. Little blade, time to meet the big knife.
RW: I am loosening my lower lip jaw. Gravity has a limit. You're now singing aerosol parasol in the belly of the maverick. The dispatcher. Every loose way but ritz. Regular classic witch hunt on slice. Primer puzzler requested a good word. I saw white and he went hog wild. We followed up but a day late and a dollar short as they say. I prayed for retribution while in the can. The squaw faucet made the donkey mask honk. If you need to know more, you'll have to follow up yourself but don't delay and stay sharp, Blade. Doctor Smaple's orders. A red thin fabric trail. That will be the right cue. Figure out the seven wrong cues and you'll be on your way. I will give you a cue clue: what's as wet as a water slide and splintered as a staff?
ZK: Blue Boy's ready for a night on clowntown (picture of golden, nude male buttocks with jewels on them and a Crisco bottle sitting next to them)
RW: Off the divers and out of the scroll. Handing out SOS thrift scrubs for the camp of kings. Lauging mummies.
ZK: Scribes imbibing phantom pharaohs, lost in Luxor. Alexandrian anchorites arriving at the high life.
RW: The old fan.
ZK: “The old fan is the new reproductive system. Get on the diving board, ghosts or fail as a species.”
RW: Sin Lynn's keister cloister. Handsome suits for hairy plumes.
ZK: That's all I do anymore. Press my leisure suit. I've got to make an im”press”ion in Ontario.
RW: Plaster of disaster cast in the kettle of hairy Marty's settlement. My minced peaworm of the original wart.
ZK: “Unroll the scroll, kiddos and read about your doom. The despots from down South are coming to take you on and wipe you out.
RW: “Look out crumb bum cause I ran out of kind words in Tucson before the ark” -Cadger Badger heaving worm The mummy owes Marty. Marty knows no limits.
ZK: Hairy Marty, held for ransom. Lynn's old flame and boy is she ready to pay the cost. The jaguar is fuming in the forest.
RW: The jaguar is shy. One of a kind plaything born for scorn weathered and shopworn bathing in the Suspicion SUV of Prophet Fred.
ZK: Oh no and unh uh. The portents are poor. Blue Boy is covered in slimecrime and olive oil and I predict a dismal birthbathblade.
RW: “It's too late to wonder why, wiz kid. We slumber while craving the ivy of liscou cou lid Lynn” -Kid Kin Lynn Wonder
ZK: Someone needs to rub some snake oil on his snake neck. That would teach him how to “be long”
RW: Out of the park and into the pork, Green Bean. It's up to you now. I am fixing to get lost in the tall withering husk, a done deal. No hollow magic. Slugs.
ZK: Poor little Rick. So naive. You're not the first to be roped in by Lynn's beguiling, bewitching wiles. You're not the first to be fooled by by the great deceiver who who slobbers on your sorrow while you float upstream face down. Luckily you have the greatest of teachers and the saddest of creatures to speak the unspeakable crimes of Lynn's unatoned sins on the Porch of Perdition.
RW: We must be talking about different Lynn's. The one I know is real fun loving and likes good times. Laughs like the laughing gourd. Coffee mugs for eyes. Has panther breath.
ZK: The very same. Many faces. Many mouths. Old money says it all, doomed soldier. It'll all come clean on the Porch of Perdition.
RW: Ol fun lovin Lynn Lynx who built the first toll booth? Granddaddy Dixie is whistlin in me. It's raining in the Field of Dreams.
ZK: Little blade, meet the big knife. Drinking out of your hair.
RW: Blue Boy is dead. Trotter's orders.
ZK: I saw that shortshitter last night. He tried to sell me soiled underwear. I said: “you're losing your touch, bean burrito.”
RW: Blue Boy is seeing blue. Corpse blue.
ZK: He talked to me until I was blue in the face last night. Code Blue.
RW: In brine Blue Boy controls the wins winds whims wines and whines. In slime, the Blue Boy lends a crime. Nail paint nail blue.
ZK: Nail guns and nails run, nail it to the post office with Luther's other edicts.
RW: Nail trial and truths. The hammer like the turtle meets the nail mail man. Ether in the edict. Blue Luther calmed a few shots with Mango Mad. Creeper's ether in Sandusky's storm of Seven Up.
ZK: Mockin Melvin's world of Pig Hearts. Artless, arcane, alluvial flood from the lips of Flip Flop.
RW: Flippant from the belly flop to the last drop. Toddd Collins says “Cool it” Waltzing on the hinge of function. Turf under the carpet.
ZK: Grass under the pond. New lands and new laws. New creatures slithering in and out of the holes in the rocks that our fathers shit out of their mouths.
RW: I've lost my footing. Can't keep track of my traction actions. I hear there will be a new star in the sky soon. The curious shade of the neighbor's lip lamp. Limbing off to the crash course of child's play.
ZK: It came from my body. My body is radio towers.
RW: The till is shallow these days. It's gonna have to be a half shell and a shallot's grave for the half jaguar. I will show you the pictures. It is a riddle. There is no shallot tall enough to keep me from getting to the Sonic Youth Boys. Furthermore, in regards to graves, the lion sleeps while the jaguar seeks.
ZK: Until the till is swill, I will know no jaguar or mountains with birdshit for tongues.
RW: I am a huge fan of the ham.
ZK: Yeah, we're a couple of old hams in the snack shop gulping down the porcelain puree. We're drumming up interest for our 2014 “Beaches of the civilized world tour”
RW: Mending the Comono Dragon with festoons of liver—like plankton. Oh, her crazy wanes of wax left untugged for her to touch up. The Comodo Commodes spill the spiel.
ZK: Limping into piano. Sell frail gales, gusting through the blubbering Botanical gardens of “The Pharaoh”
RW: Well wish the pulse with a nudge toward brutality.
ZK: Preen. Machines are birds now and I expect them to fly through the veiny genitals of the mechanic that I hired to “tool up” on the jaguar.
RW: Piano Fizz. The Pharaoh needs his thumbprint back before he needs his skinflint back before we draft the “blueboyprint”
ZK: I neither wish nor wise my flapping writ, slipping swiftly through the tall granite walls of the Pharaoh's falling furs and furry foreheads.
RW: Niggard as a hot air balloon drying out in the sink of type One. Drafting the singe of a singles sighting spotted potting their soiled holding hands. It gives me a queer feeling to know their call is real and displayed at the Plexi Bodega.
ZK: I will draw the plans, draw water from the stinking heart of a mule who died eating deathmouth from a small child's breatheeasegummywimwinsomeday. Bishop. Finally: cloths, cross, crumbs, cisterns and sisters crumbling like all tomorrow's sharkies.
RW: The good wanness stuck with the chewtooth cobra knowing when to spoon out the bile lodged in his immoderate throat. I picked the frog thrice daily to keep the thrush at bay.
ZK: Castor oil only for the Cobra cure, canes and cat of nine tails for his slithering offspring sums up the Bishop's many misdeeds.
RW: The sneezy nosed “Fizzman” split the white keys after an allergy attack. He rose from his fizz fir piano and said “Etude me.”
ZK: That piano needs a good licking and the Bishop has a lackey with a lizard tongue that would lap your liver loose of all it's lambs, lamentations and lactations.
RW: Fizz fir Bishop knew it spelled smelling salts. His cap placed him at a disadvantage in the smelting whack-a-mole. His flower water fever pitch. His false wild plug n plays. Still, tragically all film exposed to narrow view of a crybaby face and a laughing gourd.
ZK: His falsetto is enough to make a grown man groan “MAN” Pitch perfect, slur, slum, sly. That guys trees need to “fir”get about growing old because I can't see the forest for my knees, knocking boots with drastic pursuits.
RW: Leaned over sore soles to insist: “I must tell you about Idi “Aftershave, Dramamine, Hellbuckle Huckle, The Bear Trap and Last Luana Lace Lemmon. All of them have a crust as thick as my crotch to bear.” I couldn't believe my continental ears. Seemed at that point Poignant Phil the Apodaca of Ornament really had his whoppers on the line.
ZK: Kraut Snout: “For all your nosy neighbor's nutritional needs.”
RW: Lynn's a saint, man and I am the Southern Beluga.
ZK: She's a slip and slide and best, Chester and you're a chest full of chum.
RW: Yeah, all the while, whale snail, you're a widow's veil flailing lift point rails on a humble honeymoon saltine. I caught up with them in the chainsaw gardens. Not an Ax in sight. Truth is my toothy buddy. Cannibal Crochet is not Delaney's Hogg. I can't stop knowing all the tooth: Delaney, Blaster Al, and Hogg are all the same person. I am Morgan “Blue Dew” Garrett and I am having the time of my life keeping my pork chops up on bass guitar. I have Rick's cable and Rick has gone gator to the gables.
ZK: I'm using your cable to whammy bar and stable some Sharkies. It's going swimmingly. Truculent offspring tunneling through the thunder tundra.