I've always been into Dada type stuff and I saw this exercise in the back of Mick Napiers Improvisation book, where you just write stream of consciousness trying not to fall into too many obvious sequences as you go along etc. It's a lot of fun and it's interesting to see what you might not be aware of that you remember you know or finding things out in the process of just letting your subconscious go..........
for example, cess pool came into my mind, I had written "your cess pool motherloads", but I looked it up afterwards just to check the spelling to find out that cess is also an Irish word for Luck. So "luck pool motherloads" also.
I love double-entendre, esp. when it's organic. OK, so not the best analogy.
So here I'm posting some (SOC) stuff, it's good for just getting some writing done and just starting somewhere, just going with an idea and getting it out there, initiating the writing. 'Cause writing can be a hard thing to start a lot of times, and there's writer's block and the Ocean and brain damage too.
tan, aquí está la primera corriente del hilo de rosca del sentido
so, here it is the first current of the thread of spiral of the sense
(this is what the Babel fish Internet translation came up with when I put in
"here is the first stream of consciousness thread")
-A Talisman of inundated anchorage. An apple grows inverted and calms
the flaccid netherworld. The culpable diuretics exacerbate and culminate sidecars, built on Cirrus peanuts and fed to portent stem cells. Mining gardens, hanging shorter then, than your cess pool motherloads. I'm no further where surly dervishes hollow out bark like romantics and turkey calls flash Eustachian tubes of marshmallow servitude. Hung like Eunuch tunics and chiseled sans effigy, sum up sloth fit file plundering obituaries, markings on retinas dispel split pea brainiacs. Eventually…slowing to a chalky soft hassock, convoluted beneath the Emperors sock found between the perfect park, the stormy wedlock again feigned someone's Hitchcock.
Burning wealth shelves wet, reconstituted sect, flaking tremors faking it, held off by journeymen, fishing underwater with x-ray glasses of beer, a gyroscope canon, to lessen the breach of crayon-like hemispheres and portly gentlemen, surprised by supine Nerf blinds. Windows skate songlike beyond stalactites destined for Galapagos. The shell of a man can belong to General Mills, while a rabbit's precise indictment, produces an ether chewing troglodyte, hair fleeced by a chair and wooden pail. Not one can churn the accident belongs to worms searching your Jazz forms, inflating manure, pretending to find a cure, sawed in lather, a moist cape gathers and girly floss of belly glutton velour will never call you a babushka.
How many dry onions to scale the Pyramids? mutton chops, say they…forbid! The walls under choirs, forced to mettle and persuade. Mop tops stimulate fear near-field vision emulates, nary unless of force fields of clay, wielding avarice, come to decree shade. Grease, pollen, molars, Holland. Grape-Ape, mizzenmast, cornea, fashion. Butter shake, snorkel wake, Chachi's chuckle tchotchke parade.
Angle right, ferment self, capable of charging kelp, to softer havens marred by crumbs, 10 able bodied Sherpas shorn. Happy sirs, the gestalts adorned! Thunder Schlitz Furby Bjorns. Supple keepers packed in thorns, nipples raised the bar again.
So saddle up, beyond the veil, here ends, here lies, here sleeps this tale.
for example, cess pool came into my mind, I had written "your cess pool motherloads", but I looked it up afterwards just to check the spelling to find out that cess is also an Irish word for Luck. So "luck pool motherloads" also.
I love double-entendre, esp. when it's organic. OK, so not the best analogy.
So here I'm posting some (SOC) stuff, it's good for just getting some writing done and just starting somewhere, just going with an idea and getting it out there, initiating the writing. 'Cause writing can be a hard thing to start a lot of times, and there's writer's block and the Ocean and brain damage too.
tan, aquí está la primera corriente del hilo de rosca del sentido
so, here it is the first current of the thread of spiral of the sense
(this is what the Babel fish Internet translation came up with when I put in
"here is the first stream of consciousness thread")
-A Talisman of inundated anchorage. An apple grows inverted and calms
the flaccid netherworld. The culpable diuretics exacerbate and culminate sidecars, built on Cirrus peanuts and fed to portent stem cells. Mining gardens, hanging shorter then, than your cess pool motherloads. I'm no further where surly dervishes hollow out bark like romantics and turkey calls flash Eustachian tubes of marshmallow servitude. Hung like Eunuch tunics and chiseled sans effigy, sum up sloth fit file plundering obituaries, markings on retinas dispel split pea brainiacs. Eventually…slowing to a chalky soft hassock, convoluted beneath the Emperors sock found between the perfect park, the stormy wedlock again feigned someone's Hitchcock.
Burning wealth shelves wet, reconstituted sect, flaking tremors faking it, held off by journeymen, fishing underwater with x-ray glasses of beer, a gyroscope canon, to lessen the breach of crayon-like hemispheres and portly gentlemen, surprised by supine Nerf blinds. Windows skate songlike beyond stalactites destined for Galapagos. The shell of a man can belong to General Mills, while a rabbit's precise indictment, produces an ether chewing troglodyte, hair fleeced by a chair and wooden pail. Not one can churn the accident belongs to worms searching your Jazz forms, inflating manure, pretending to find a cure, sawed in lather, a moist cape gathers and girly floss of belly glutton velour will never call you a babushka.
How many dry onions to scale the Pyramids? mutton chops, say they…forbid! The walls under choirs, forced to mettle and persuade. Mop tops stimulate fear near-field vision emulates, nary unless of force fields of clay, wielding avarice, come to decree shade. Grease, pollen, molars, Holland. Grape-Ape, mizzenmast, cornea, fashion. Butter shake, snorkel wake, Chachi's chuckle tchotchke parade.
Angle right, ferment self, capable of charging kelp, to softer havens marred by crumbs, 10 able bodied Sherpas shorn. Happy sirs, the gestalts adorned! Thunder Schlitz Furby Bjorns. Supple keepers packed in thorns, nipples raised the bar again.
So saddle up, beyond the veil, here ends, here lies, here sleeps this tale.