AnOther StrAnge Blog _______________________ fictive things __________



The fictions blog series has a ..



Strata are not dates? are dates figs then? figative pigures on the dare of knowing time's (done) escape and death's the body?

Noone knows the answer




Castle longing

And s(h)e lost  a breath from loving not quite either too little or late but wanting to pant at the edge of love's seat. she's a feat and twice over the ringing pulley.

Not  a second too  a  crescent moon means loving. Aware of air. Somber on the feet? Not so a light patter over the delicacies of age.

and she? she's a mother with the fierce   of its valor? perhaps homophones and honour are the pallor tricks  of its prepositional disunity where    falling apart busting through molecules of the multitudinous resurrections makes it s case

Up the ElevAtor doWn the StairS

                                  and is your body love or a djinn a judgement to or against time. The falcon  no the hawk on the river Friday afternoon

 came looming along hovering down over the water and the dark grey heaviness of weight


  Jill's got  a boot in her tender heart's tip and it won't flip to day and night.

  Long to the lover's moan. A moat for pulling boats and other refugees on the smooth space of the allegory transomed over window and
  ignaceous   crust and mirroring  crap shoots out the hidden aperture of this modest castle's longing.



Get Cracking


 Get Cracking! Jill the night is long is highlight the rain pours over the city like a rainbow arc pissing its colors across the harbor.             A right bright wing of desire fluttering over the lakes and moons,                the beams pulling the strata higher starlight to its fire.

 Its desire Mona mouth cries! a rig busting the lagoon, a platoon of salt fillers and winged creatures burying their treasure trove.



Jill is...

  Jill is like Jack they go up then down the hill. with a bucket full of water. But the night is a daring thing with rivers galore to it. She's different than her father who's warned (her) of high tide and malarkey.

   But what of that? she's wondered often her self to her self the din of drumming tartars making breakfast as the orient rises, and her teeth wonder.

Too perhaps. But not a nod to the thing in-itself nor the elbows eloquently placed on the table. That's raining by the enormous kennel of the forest.

    Or a word close to it. A word close to it and it's packing and preparing and swearing lunch bags must fit into the open sack. That's the way it goes in that normative sun in. where the wheat shine? who  are you kidding you mayhem monkey an this tornado.

______________________________ | Okay Mona has no one to speak about this totem nor this rotating fish that's blanking every spoon. Each spring that emerging comes along as any seasonal strut would and the clandestine hidden of age's better known product. Being what if I may ask Fanny's turn turn and turn around. A season of control and patrol.  A thing must keep its word or there's no one left to hide.

Fanny might be flat-cheated downright looking like a regular barber's pole but she's got a butt to make up for it.
her hips were made to lather! meaning smooth as butter for a lover's  what shall I say rubbing, eloquence? a simple make over in the passing of camp. Ovaries and sequins  suspeneded in night. And she's the knight hidden by the fox tracking down the trespassers, bears, growling things, prowlers coming off a run, and something else, silver, chalices, plates of bronze, bas-relief calenders and onyx and gold tipped teeth. And her heels are glimmering shining under her sandals.

 Now back to the philosopher . what were you hinting at for to become commiserating in your lambkins.

A philosopher was recommending that the written word was not trustworthy! well was he now, indeed he was.
                               A feathered cap ! it was controlled by a thief and her bandolero.



cement year

                                                                             cement tears / fears/ years

 Anti _ changing a consonant   changes the picture the sound picture . Pitcher of balance and walking sauntering word

Ssss . what's the arrow the future landing in its spell bound neck.

A dream body


Jill has a body but it's a dream   she's reckoned it's a fork in the road? a positive thing possibly . Trying to catch the objectivity of     thing? trying to catch the objectivity of things.

it's that river flowing out of her head

A dream body not the quantity of dates .

 What does that to do with philosophy and the daily heart ache of living. Plodding or breaking down the street your knees

   the night the air
                        the non-traveller   .

   But you can't see between the eyes.

   What's that Jill doing with? a  lost pagette . It's got to do with bikinis and banana ? a rink round the sudden sud, the kid shitting  his pants on the way  home a double long walk with cross eyed Linda, hey the best  ~ .

_________________ Now that's fiction as it's never been exposed. A bright gleam a shine a widdershin cloaked in bight and blight has borne the fafafafafffixed fortune

~  _____________________



Jill had her gill

 Jill had her gill. Her g enetic bode rhyming with code mustering over the clear clean sky. Adjectives. Not ject with the trill of

   her shadowing body burning

    Jill had a hound dog a  way of life. She's cluttered in the white between  g  and the note clarion  D. Shes' hugger mugger to its state. She's Mona to her jennyanydots.

What happened to jennyanydots and her heart felt worship?

Crackled between the empirical and hysterical she's got the riverread rush. the whoosh of its such a prorogued sound of parlez vous she can't eat.

Ovver you mouth! Mona come it to my back and  the hard king by the thing.

Call it a hotdog crush and Time's Duration. Or the body of paradox or bead and whip. Something. A mouth filled with water? No that word not good enough. Rye field? wheat? spending that loot on those vaccine she does . fitter sister than that, Antigone. A reign on her head. Not the elite but the complete  god as they are. Farther than Opps the p.a. system is broke.

Rain falling and Franny's got her goose.




 does a woman have mercy?

  __      Gille  Difference was reading Lacan a d ay one day a asignified at a time unfolding 
                                                               (but he never read him really it was more like he razored him!
if one and two can say sothus, its the catatonic brilliant knight horse!) (burstingwithlight) 

said was  it's a 'tory s'tory as I told about group reading of Antioedipus this was a story as the fiction's

Did  a  woman have mercy ? her veiling trailing

A woman can't be Shakespeare so must make herself . Yet  poverty or paralysis'll dog  her  life but not to trot  but to tear up the streets along Sherbrooke   (my turf! someone said it was resonating my turf) (I loved that man) street the night of longer distance hunger the golden mile the long distance street of loneliness

   That must be Jill's hug memory she's memoried a strong box tale of a dog. yes, Moses was the caliber my lover. A smell taste of near to forty yrs later. That's a smell!

    What she forgot her curliecue ear but her remembered the other smells. 

No, that's too dramatic by half. Wasn't like that at all was it now? Shipping down Montreal from Parais and the boxes of night and





  If Jill's going to be three-backed how can she breath when breathing's a shore, you mean a chore beating at waves never coming, no waves coming in ave .
                                                                              because the piggy-wigs at central control ( read: territory to boss gang)  have got the box where the good breaths are kept don't they  ?

                              and the bastards have telescopes everywhere     and Mona's kicking ass between the breaths catching her choke-hold on the dying   of day .

        they won't tell her that . they' ll say make it order   . to fit and  

                                                                       cracking the seams.



pick off

How it would be? Another way? hold back that question stifle that syntax ring that worm-root hold that cannibal. Shuffle them frog warts grab them chicken-livers, shrink those cat-guts.

Jill's got her boots wrapped around the scenery of Shakespearian Macduff. Can she get out ? She's got her breasts wrapped around something else too and it's rather taboo and forbidden. So much so we can't say what it is. 'T'is' so overtly repressed these nights, a stinking rag, rattle of bones a pink tong.

Shaking , pissed off, peeved with the bloody betrayal.

She cant and wont. Wont be desirable to 'get out' as they say. But one candle points to another in a streak of crazy castles. How many worlds have come and gone since ? Each glance is upward and hurling its pitch on the stone.

What does it have to do with D you ask? Nothing except it's my D, as it s my Dt & Rt too. so my Shakespeare which is a love like god loving a creature .... Borges says it doesn't he in that story about mister s.w. meeting god near the end of his days ....

But Mona's titled and tilted toward the sun and continuing the chase for the first word last word.

A butcher would understand this wouldn't he with his bloody apron and haphazard smile.

bloody knight'd have no hesitation slashing the throat .