Metaphoric Hate....Coroneus, Wake.

Monday, December 06, 2010

The Curious Dreamlife of Marshmallow Addie - Volume 25

Fatuously, it was not going to ain't work. You know what gets my goat, or conversely, you know what get's my goat. And et cetera, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. So on, even.

As an alternative hypothesis.

Foreffer andadday, fait accomplished a lot. A soft spring like ambulature in a greening of choice. Gentle breeze and even milder camemberts. Whatfore does this probably converge to, in a measure for measure? With much expectation, Marshmallow Addie was weak, almost surely.

When remarked in hythepothement, this dissolutes purposefully abrade. Characteristically generating moments, Marshmallow Addie was asked how in the wide, wide, wide world did he bottle entropy. LeBeg your pardon?

As an alternative hypothesis, ha, simpletons. It's Lesbesgue, actuallament.

As an alternative hypothesis, this would. Oyster come, oyster go. And an oyster, beating trendlines, willfully gained conditional employment. Oh wait, that was a misspok'd word. It was actually Marshmallow Addie's moment. This is the story of how a sub-martingale quietly died.

Ha, it's not, you bloody mothers. The perfect Cofariance is, on the other hand. As an alternative hypothesis.

Saturday, April 24, 2010

The Curious Dreamlife of Marshmallow Addie - Volume 24

A penguin derived in whimsy, undulate metamorphorically and what not. Somehow, in this there exists a debt of ingratitude. Clockologically speaking, this hasn't been a gapless scenario. Abyss, even. Beaucoup de temps.

A new conduit materialized. Glide grayly apropos, you orientalist shenanigan. Thusly, cette vais. Bizarrement, an infinitude of normality had descended in the blink of an oyster's eyelid. Mayhaps it was the Dawn Hozay synthesis.

Or peut-etre Marshmallow Addie had awakened. Yet another again.

Such was the story of a Meninguin (flock of-) derived in flimsy.

Wednesday, December 17, 2008

A Third Possibly Incomplete Tale

... but that's just my opinius.

Friday, October 17, 2008

The Curious Dreamlife of Marshmallow Addie - Volume 23

What did context ever have anything to do with anything, anyway?

With pale hands, a richly hued lack of sleep was built. How does such a state be? Trapped in between a meringue and sunrise, stale breeze sweeping over it, it sat. Staring at empty words somehow being wrenched out of a vacuum. It wasn't worth the bother. Not too many things were.

Something always happens. That really was the whole point. So why be arsed? Life is a concatenation of different sized somethings. Or so it seems when you take the cheese out of it.

Pers: Wh?

Crimorcles: True.

Pers: Gud pint on yer behoof. Welly wells, so the thingy is thingus.

Crimorcles: Whut is is.

Pers: Gud pint, dammut glenfidget.

Crimorcles: Nurh, wassa quesshun.

Pers: Oho.

Something always filled in the blanks. If blanks were initially perceived to have existed there, that is to say. If not, there was something there anyway. Not worth the bother. The cookie always crumbles. Into something.

An oyster waited for something. Not much going on other than the ebb of life. Thoughts were piling up next door, figuring out what to do, then scampering away at merely the thought of doing so, just like average quality sheets of printer paper with odd squiggly scripts printed on them in a grandmother's least favourite font. Now that was something.

Friday, August 08, 2008

The Curious Dreamlife of Marshmallow Addie - Volume 22

Excellentus en amalgamum. Verbal fusillades evapourated inocuously, much like a jaw-searingly easy drawn smoke ring. Padron the disturbancia. Natrually.

When independence, however ephemeral, is threatened to be lost yet another again, what is there that remains to be done other than give it away quickly of your own volition? youcantquitmeIfire. It has been mentioned in the past that an old hen cannot change it's speckles. Sadly, that is still not false.

Irish in nature in more ways than it would know, the ale was in no way pale. A life is sad - that is an oft understated, yet implicit misunderstanding of something or the other that isn't worth bothering about right now. However, when it's continuity is eroded by timely interventions from good spirited bitter acts and that by definition is therefore rejected, then there is only one recourse: jack and sodomy.

And with a hefe heart, one must admit, such was the choice of Marshmallow Addie.

Thursday, July 31, 2008

Some whim-wham

Soul searching sentry's stoic, stucco scene,
Never left his mistress's ice.
Resolute, desolute, disgusting dry day drench,
On a loudspeaker I like to call gut-wrench.

Thursday, December 06, 2007

A Second Possibly Incomplete Tale

Bulge in a China Short

On stilts, presumably, he seemed perplexed at the orientation of spin. Stochastic was oft the glimmer of choice in such an impregnable example.

Righteously undone is sixteen different azimuths, it is somewhat unfair to place such a question right in the lower left lap of reason or other such arbitrary vestiges. Resonance indicates a purely metamorphic understanding of its melancholic state, wallowing in which, leads invariably to correctly derived confusions.

Fuming ever so slightly from a nor' nor' eastern orifice, he vented a fraction of his spleen in sheer defiance of the suspense of animation. Faunication, as some might will it to transliterate, is quite a few beisbol fields off its narrower cousin.

Surely then, this has to be it.

Thursday, October 04, 2007

A Possibly Incomplete Tale

The Aussie Who Didn't Sledge

Strewth Humdinger was a tall, lanky Aussie medium-pacer who was mildly allergic to baked beans, but didn't like sledging even more. In fact, he refused to ever sledge. He was then dropped from the Queensland B reserves team under the pretext of being unable to extract lateral movement under heavy cloud cover during nets just before Finals day and shortly afterwards, in an unrelated incident, fed alive to rabid dingo dogs.

Tuesday, January 16, 2007

The Curious Dreamlife of Marshmallow Addie - Volume 21

Marshmallow Addie focussed on the shapes in between objects. Sigma residual areas equals total area. Tautological infinity analysis. Real life was occasionally fairly lucid, as far as hallucinations went. Odd. He probably was in reality, just another bum under a bridge who hadn't realized that the green tea he had been smoking all these years had been laced with cocoa all along.

Shame how the shapes themselves changed when the gaps in between them came into focus. Just as words changed when he listened to the millisecond silences between each one. Within each one.

Marshmallow the Hookah was now confused. Especially when Yellowbottom feebly coughed out a smoke ring called Addie.

Crimorcles: I say, a most astonishing thing happened!

Pers: You don't say!

Crimorcles: Yes! Just the other day, this chap hit a triple hundred in just one day. He absolutely murdered the bowling.

Pers: Good heavens! Was it a rubbish attack? A flatbed bowler's nightmare?

Crimorcles: Nothing of that sort. It was just bloody brilliant batting. Marvelous stuff to watch, I tell you. Unless you were part of the fielding team, of course, though I must confess, I thought I noticed the chap at cover applaud a couple of boundaries after a point. And one of them even before it passed him!

Pers: Ah yes, a well timed cover drive does have a hypnotic effect at times. It reminds me of a few summers ago when I was younger and happened to play in the junior leagues a bit. I used to do a spot of 'keeping on and off... more off than on if you catch my drift.

Crimorcles: Rot! 'keeping? You couldn't catch a ball with a sack... let alone a pair of unwieldy gloves.

Pers: Nevertheless, I happened to be keeping one afternoon when this chap none of us knew from Adam strolled out with just one pad on and went on to hit a hundred odd in just under half an hour. And not one ball was hit in the air. It was quite remarkable. He scored off every single ball except one towards the end. He played and missed and I was so used to seeing the ball hit past cover or point every time he was at the crease, that I was standing behind the wickets with my hands on my hips. Needless to say, the ball went straight through my legs for four byes. Rather embarassing, that.

Crimorcles: Well, I couldn't have expected better. Right, well, let's go to the pub and shag the monkey.

Wednesday, December 20, 2006

The Curious Dreamlife of Marshmallow Addie - Volume 20

As is the wont of the universe, another humourous anecdote evapourated into the vacuum. Stoically framed in pensiveness, Marshmallow Addie shook his head in disagreement. Another humourous anecdote dissolved into a puddle of thin gruel which happened to be the state of his sub-conscious at that particular instant. At any particular instant, actually, without loss of too much generality.

Addie stopped dead in his tracks as he ambled aimlessly towards the feeder and slowly retraced his steps back to the house of cards by the fire place. There was an odd periodicity to the events taking place within and he couldn't just drift past them again:

Dr. Hynshystyr J. E. Allenby's Existentialist Tea Party

Dr. H. J. E. Allenby: Pass me a bun

A piece of crumbled Gorgonzola: The object in question or just the taste?

Dr. H. J. E. Allenby (raises eyebrow contemptuously): Are you not aware dear sir, that no bun can have a taste unless it is bitten into? Taste is not a disembodied entity which can be plucked out of its object at will.

The piece of crumbled Gorgonzola (shifts back comfortably into the warm leather couch while nursing a rather well made drink of peach schnapps. And something else.): Ah, and that is where you err, Jerome. You have an a priori notion of the taste having eaten a bun before, so you are in a position to dissociate the two entities.

Dr. H. J. E. Allenby (raises eyebrow even further, so that now, folds that are forming on one side of forehead actually touch each other. Blasted lard based diet!): Yes, but don't you know that each bun is a separate and whole new entity, independent of the previous bun, just like a coin toss?

The piece of crumbled Gorgonzola (its turn to raise an eyebrow, except that it's out of practice and ends up raising both): Coin toss?

Dr. H. J. E. Allenby (Loosens belt a little bit and settles into a more comfortable story telling posture): Yes, one of the odd paradoxes of probability. If I flip a coin nine times and get nine successive heads, the probability of getting heads again on my tenth toss is still half. However, if I look at the entire sequences of ten coin tosses, the probability of getting ten successive heads in a row is one over toot the tent. But, the point is that the tenth toss is still independent of the past nine, despite the fact that it effects the probability when taken in a sequence. Just like the taste of one bun is independent of the taste of the sequence of buns before it.

The piece of crumbled Gorgonzola (pauses for a moment to gather thoughts but decides to chug drink instead): I see a fundamental flaw in that logic even though I can't quite put my finger on it. And I'm not just saying that because I don't have a finger to put on anything. Or for that matter that I don't usually go around tasting coins. No, that definitely sounds wrong to me.

Dr. H. J. E. Allenby (sneers): Nonsense! You have nothing to say to disprove this. My logic is infallible.

The piece of crumbled Gorgonzola: Just like the house of cards you live in.

Dr. H. J. E. Allenby: Exactly. I construct both with my excellent hands. If you don't like it, suite yourself.

Addie giggled and colourfully coughed out the remainder of his breakfast for some reason. Another humeric anec...


Wednesday, December 13, 2006

The Curious Dreamlife of Marshmallow Addie - Volume 19

Odd shapes emerged and weaved through the soft maze of alkaline dreams. Marshmallow Addie asked a strange question which he immediately let go of when his eye fell on a chocolate glazed lincolnberry bun sandwich suspended on a pendulous rainbow ice cream lollipopsickle. Some questions go unanswered. Don't they? Ok, don't answer that if you don't need to feel like doing it right.

The question was, "why is I?". Or quite possibly "how is I?"... the distraction had set in by the third syllable. It was most definitely not,"what is I". That question, as Addie very well knew, had been answered in three part riddles by a dying piece of rather wholesome but stinky goat cheese and had been published in last month's Especial Riserva edition of "Ladies' Home Decoration and Yuletide Fornication Journal for Dummies".

The trick answer to Addie's question was not, "I is because!". Because I is not. The answer was also not,"That's why!". Because that's not why.

The persistence of these trivial Lagavullian escapades was finally throwing its weight around. Questions come and go, answered and unanswered, as two unified apples watched their world go up in smoke from a familiar vantage point. Yellowbottom flinched as the question whizzed past, searing the air around him.

A usually melancholic oyster raised a thoughtful eyebrow and conjectured briefly, which due to the nature of the question, turned out to be both right and wrong at exactly the same time. It said, "I is because Sunday turned left at Elephantly bingo. I is because the smell of freshly sown hay in the first rough draught of winter." Which is later crossed out for a more PG version. "I is also because the sound of everything and nothing both happening at once in disharmony." Toot toot, I think not. Not that I think its wrong... don't get me wrong here. I just don't think anymore these days. That's without the "so", Lumberjack.

Crimorcles: Stupd chylld, whie dinnya spot thu slo'er un?

Pers: Umm... I esspek it comm outta back 'o hand.

Crimorcles: Bleedin' eegit, thassa gogol! How many time's do I haffta telcha? Don takecher eye offta tigyr.

And as usual, Uncle Tallwhisker won in the end as he usually does usually.

Monday, December 11, 2006

The Curious Dreamlife of Marshmallow Addie - Volume 18

Sandpaper coughter in an unlit room. Flick on: CRT screensaver illuminium. Flick off.



Crimorcles: Be Zwacks.

Pers: Yuss?

Rumour has it. Good.

Rumours are rarely true. That's just a rumour. Which is rarely true. Which is a rumour.

Marshmallow Addie was caught in a horrific infinite loop. Try as hard as he could, he couldn't shake it off. He woke up the next morning to low kettle squeaks just above pit level and broke into a cold sweat of pure gelatin. He was still in the loop. On and onion onion like Lord Alfred Tennysonyon. Then he slept.

Then he woke. And he was out of it. Addie had reached infinity where annoying loops end and other fun things happen.

Outside a new window, a bird chirped nonchalantly, stuck on a single note in between two microtones. Like a scratched record. By his bedside, a scratched record player had stopped.

Addie clicked on another window on the cascaded style sheet and looked outside again to notice that train tracks had finally met, as they were rumoured to at infinity in popular culture. But this is curved space. Are euclidding me? Parallel or not, infinity was just another stopping point.

Rumour had it.

Tuesday, October 24, 2006

The Curious Dreamlife of Marshmallow Addie - Volume 17

Suddenly, quite quite quite suddenly, the two apples were one. Quite quite quite... actually wait a minute, it wasn't quite that sudden if the free shipping time was considered. Or maybe it was. The suddenness was everlasting, it stretched on and on anon anon like a sheath. Of paper. Oh wait, that's sheaf. That's right chief, you is right as usual. Quite quiet.

A toxic mongrel fed. A strangely numb twitching in the firstrowfirstcolumn of what was once a six pack ab set was a terrifying indicator of adiposity. Marshmallow Adiposity. It was time for Marshmallow Subtractie. What makes a bitter? I bet he bought some bitter to make the bitter a bit better. He better bet a better bitter for but a bitter a bit bitterer. That's right Betty. I really don't know how you sleep. How do you sleep, really?

So what makes a bitter after all that? Old hens? Addie thought not. Not only about old hens. He just thought not. About nothing in general. Or in particular. It was a particularly general thought. Or not.

Minwheel, Everready the Hookah shighed a happy metallic shimmy in her post virginal vestibule. Life is easy.

* * * * * *

In another oddly shaped universe, Marshmallow Subtractie was sitting on a floating rock, fishing for nothing in particular. Some might argue that no universe is odd. It just is. Odd, isn't it? Then again, some might argue that in such a universe, Marshmallow Subtractie should be sitting upside down. Others might argue that rock should be sitting on Marshmallow Subtractie while he is being fished for. eb dluohs sgniht woh si siht taht eugra thgim sretho llitS.

Some argue just to bring an arguement into existence. Some arguements exist just to bring such people into existence. All such existing arguements are just other amusements. And others just sit and watch arguements about existence.

Friday, September 29, 2006

The Curious Dreamlife of Marshmallow Addie - Volume 16

Meanwhile, a bulbuous pigeon which had recently feasted on corporate toxic fat under golden arches, crashed headfirst into a lampost or gargoyle.

Marshmallow Addie designated a stately pleasure dome. It was a five bedroom penthouse apartment in a two flooried highrise. Startled looking gargoyles glared skywards awkwardly. Their horribly deformed features were impossible to sculpt in approximately three dimensions. And they all urinated single malts into the birdbath. It was a sunless sea.

Cohabitation was never easier.

Crimorcles: A damn shell will a dull shimmer in a vission one shy shaw.

Pers: Twice an I'll be seen' ya may den on 'er dull shimmer sheep laid, singin' a Mon Tabeaura.

Crimorcles: Fie cod refie wizzin me, dud seem funny an so on, to sujja dip the light wood in me, that we muse eCloud an long, I woo bill duh doom in eh?

Pers: 'is flay shingie zen flow tingaire. We worser kill roundim thrice...

Crimorcles: 'an clo syer ice wiholy dredd.

Pers: Forheon hun eDew hatfed.

Crimorcles: 'an drun Tamill o'parrot ice.

Startled looking gargoyles glared skywards awkwardly. Yellowbottom eagerly awaited his newborn brother. A christening was due. Or quite possibly a baptism by fire.

And they all urinated single malts into the birdbath.

Addie prematurely ejected a billiard. Shoot from the hip? Too fast too soon toomuchtooeasypeasey? Bloody hell. The billiard missed its mark by being off target. Smitten by the green texture, but off cue, off target by being off the mark. The scratching of a billiard on his greenish mind could made him cry. Maybe he remembers them from shooting frames up in the sky.

And they all urinated single malts into the birdbath. Which served the purpose: free dinner. Inebriated birds crashing headfirst into lamp posts or gargoyles saved a prayer visit to the golden arches. Because pigeons are stupid people.

Thursday, September 14, 2006

The Curious Dreamlife of Marshmallow Addie - Volume 15

Marshmallow Addie breathed in deep. Up and down the stairs, blubblubblub, head in head out inoutintout. Breathe out deep. Aha, fooldja dinn I? Well, breathe inoutinout as usual. Up the stairs, and around. Head bobs out. This time's a million. Yellowbottom grinned smugly. The two apples were at their job, chuffing and puffing and chugging and plugging away. They sat on a verandah with a view. Do not disturb. Tomorrow is really gone. Its nearly gone.

The pearl alarum cilock whistled a merry toon. Bawmey Shunday is wakin up. Sleep deprivation was the sin of times.

Meanwhile, the perfect martini was getting lost in the chaos of its creation. Perfection ought to be ephemeral. That's what made it perfect. Or maybe periodic. A perfect martini was getting lost in the... oh wait! Um... yeah, a perfect martini.

Suprisingly, the seasons changed as usual. A time to make new friends. Uncle Tallwhisker, are you listening? Your time is approaching. Edges fly and life makes a short pit stop. Ok, I'm back. And this time, I'm wrong.