TFDF: Meeting The Obituaries

Meeting The Obituaries

No talent appreciates its host.

Leading first was Beluga. Oh, Beluga. Grandiose, cod-ridden, rightful Staten Island messed cherry tin. Compositing a rightful paunch despite time in the love of inflation he stood against that tide and went fishing for a long while instead. Though his rind leads on and on and only so much about thirteen said times does he marker his eponymous mouscerade. That suited me nicely though. Small, insignificant details are what everyone picks up, and yet we’re all for letting a whale rot on the beach line. Condescending. Amelelia Diamanté elaborates in a pin striped mauven wreck of a Victorian dress, with bloblings arising of her shoulder pads, as if she were inchoate. She stands by her leanings, and landing sills, posing andro-menoliths about face where the lady of the manner snaps back. Different is like a lighter…Well then there’s Accolade James, well, he’s just bizarre, the goldfish in a Koi pond. He flounders about with a bit of tongue here und ther, avec un grace que lui elude. Nemissary seams he annoys me. In a sense of guignol tempestuoudeity he is writhing abouth things ever round the sun and bleaks scribbling unto the night time. Not much sense. Don’t worry if you don’t get it- pertinacious. He’ll understand that you don’t (he’ll make it clear that you shouldn’t). Vapid – both the air and the fumes, Calumny Heartwrench aligns with them. He is dark, sea-weathered and a bit plain. He talks norm. Some thing’s come through once in a line. But on most occasions; the words we read are black…windings…letting us get away…but aren’t hands worse than the eye? Hence, we breed the legerdemain. Now they say.

We said hello’s from said ‘Hello’ to ‘Nǐ hǎo’- to keep them pleased. Nonce, the tea arrived and was set upon our castrated flower steel table. And here’s where the location of pluvious pitter-prattle began about simple things and went tan gently into brews chrysostomatic. Looking at our tea cups although, they were interesting. Sat around ourselves, each adapted to the texture black with certain lactic frequencies, they looked like the phases of the moon. Arched around us and each person there, we sipped and slurped and ramble fustigated. The talk was not caught well. I decided to fade myself into fancy, but in front of me. It was a clash of titans, with ink spit blood and head caskets. I introduced myself late. But they didn’t acknowledgement although they are meant to appear at the start. Nope, all it came was to big brains and measly bucks, of both kinds, in the hand from the slot in the wall or rid up round the back of Carmen Alleyway. Anneways, their mouth oscillating made me swirl around the base of my cup, poor ceramic city. Pale even bright laid even basin where democracy works; no outspoken word is said because it is cleared from sight, by porcelain thoughts; the only that can be heard and spoken in this city; pure, white, angelic, positively held palpable within the outset of my hand. If heaven were a place, it would be a teacup. That is what I think until my vision of Hell turns in; in dark leaves from the tree which was not to be tasted; where the ebon reeks profane; onto the clear basin it destroys its pristinity, ruins it’s clarity; ultimately desecrating something pure into something puerile; and yet it makes sense because what is Hell coincides with what is pleasurable, and tea is my pleasure. One time pristine…Next time distain.

‘What about Moribund?’ First question of the day I pick up. ‘Sad sack supposed incriminating always lean prociprocrating polysyllables macadamise we are but with he absence remains the scar…’ --- ‘The news arrived much too soon. I’d foreseen him to have drooped a yon ages far.’ --- ‘Honey, he drooped like a tulip in august waaay earlier, so quit hacklin’ bout it’ --- ‘But carry trays, he’s gone. Sad to say it, but he is. Once someone dies it’s a right mare’s nest. The biggest exposé you could ever think of: your details, your body, your aftermath, all covered over in others’ fingerprints.’ --- ‘I comprehend. Lowly, some sugar please, would declare this up, right the scoop, no more lacrosse, day by night, filament bulbs next to candles, only then the candles can never get spotlight, only when the bulbs are out are the candles brought in,’ I interrupted. “But if the bulbs are out, why would you have the candles there?” --- ‘Well it’d be provisional,-‘ --- “But no-one’s EVER that provisional, surely when you have bulbs that are out then there is no need for candles.” For Jelly’s sake, it’s only eleven o’clock in the morning. Calm the mammarys. I thought to them. Ah yes, this is the first time you have gotten word of precise time in this expedition. Well, I can confirm to you the time is: 11:20a.m. That is all to say ‘on time’ but there wilt is mór time arriving soon.

Definite, there was. And then the tea had gone polar, so I asked more of the boy with the black and white waistcoat. And sure enough more cups of inky serum came around derail. Another set of phases, brighter than the last. I held mine up from the steeled daffodils to the litter. Hedon I announced, ‘To Moribund’ as it was appropriate to commemorate him whilst we had this pre-silence. They raised theirs in tow and there co-lucid-sonambience was achieved. This is what we called, the ceremony before the memoriam. All members arose to their fine china, taking it to their noses and sniffed, appreciating the aroma and every wondrous particle that sacrificed itself in these crucibles of wild herb and dust. Where totality is served up to the brim with latent calicoes, clear suppositions, bright winds and deep dreams, all swirled about the fostos leaving into concordant sanctity. To find beauty in every object of the world, that is the mission of our meeting. Where diversity folds paper thin, we knocked against each other’s frail reality with the febrile *clink* of a teacup.