was asked by an editor of an abstract magazine to write something suitable. This is it...
The bubble of filth frothed like a muddy dawn spilling a deluge within the framed zenith of its zero bound gravity. Nebulous nodes trimmed by the lace grace of heretical fractions twitched the tortured fronds of calamity by which nobility itched the crescent haste by degrees of virtue. It was as if, dipped locally, a multitude hastened the untimely sequence of outmoded habitats into buttermilk effervescent torques. A belched beach ball flew heavy with pregnant paucity across a tiled prayer albeit controlled less by centrifuge than custard in a rim shot. It was the hour of commonplace word webs, patches set on soiled parchment like peach stones stapled to an oblique blessing.
Concurrently, if in bled notes, the jaws of mendicants shuffled bodingly as though fish puppets passing as papal pastiches knew the better of the wrist. The action of which filled the Walton with creamy ejaculate, tapioca as a conceptual politick. Frightening yet replete. Crimson. Ochre. Dust motes cuddled the huddled mass of jazz benefiting only the whore lights of graffiti. Wash baron’s gritted tools made sharp by smiling diamonds that glittered febrile and simulating the stimulating glans of Mary Magdalen rose up as tenement crows with wings of azure.
Down, deep, there or thereabouts, tap tapped the Clovis succulent green, grim and gored on tips of atonal mushroom afterbirth. Twisted by the haze of friction. Hail and hale the weathered brows of Albatross feathers fictionalised now forever forgotten as the hands pretended that the hair of history nether swells gratitude.
Begone you filched reprisals. Have you no innocents to slaughter? That washing well of inclement thought fractures the boatswain’s cock sure come-uppance in fits and farts the better to startle starlings whose insect chirpings discolour the eve. Blackened yet bleached. The sea lion on the hoof of reason as wave after water brine tore vestiges of teeth tossed sudden onto beaches riddled by monkey sounds. The reclusive sands. The bucking trash.
A ‘U’ shaped frenzy. Magpies dressed accommodatingly as your horizon blues the claret spilling cyanide as syntax. Mad laughed heat lumps repeated as stale burps. That hiccupping crunch of indelicate under wiring. Fossilized modernity dances across filaments of crust beyond the conceptual and into the condom. In need of trepidation creeps the ivy fist all virulent with hive hunger.
The morbidity of the absurdist chant, multiplicity enhanced, recalls seagulls to the disciples of children’s tears. I find the duties ideally waxed produced as kernel off-shoots. ‘Am I not my engineer’s finger?’
Two sentences. As a writer, one who dislikes labels of any kind, I would have to describe my work as ‘amatory absurd’ which remains firmly descriptive so tackling the abstract was a challenge. That said words flowed like butter spread.
Russell Cuts the Corn From The Brewers Whiskers.