Sunday Scribbling #110: Telephone

What? No “mother” prompt?

Tripping over the wires of unseen dormitories, the flit-flies of cereal doom, the imaginary coasters of insignificant wiry. We’ll call for room service, say the elvish bears, but do they really mean it, have they ever come through over the wire service, the APs and Reuters and cash cows of the rest of yesterday’s seminal mess, the mythology of connection, the ancillary capillaries that encapsulate and irritate the fleeting fluster clustered ‘neath this and every other aviary, chirp chirping till dawn, midnight hours long gone to Radio Luxembourg, in the whispery whispering whispers, non-negotiable unredeemable redemptorists, as if you even needed that kind of doom to settle upon this that and every other kind of willing sorbet, the netherdreams dreamt way out beyond the carnal aspects of why we don’t do that any more. Why else do you think they’ve flown beyond all recognition? AGB called for Watson: did he really care, or was it just hopes of a paycheck, a stock split, dividends, pension plan, lime green parachute, visual do not play, or just maybe nothing more than AGB’s last unopened package of stale white powdery donuts, played out way beyond the bend in the river. Naipaul, he said, but that was a long time ago, wives ago, with London calling. London never even calls now, misgiven, misguided, misdirected, misinformed, misaligned, misquoted, misinterpreted, and oh so misrepresented. It isn’t what you think: it never was, never will be, was never intended to be in the first place.

867530ni-ee-iiiiiine.