(take the r out of boring)

A Russian absurdist performance piece collaboration between distant & recent past versions of me.

Sybil still had her coat on as she lounged on the humid bed to write. The lice in her head were numerous but something new was chewing on her.
"Hello? Who's that in my head?" she wrote, surprised to witness her hand respond.
"Why, it's me. Sub-text. The writer's companion. I will be your assistant, noting and commenting on everything you experience."
"Ah." she sort of exclaimed, (but what she really meant was "And whyyy would I want you around?")
"I can deepen your meaning."
"Oh." (Though what she thought was: "But...I am therefore I mean.")
"I think you´ll find that in writing: you mean therefore you are."
Sybil was flustered as much as a russian immigrant can be and, biding for time, she wrote down Sub-text's comment while trying to figure out another nickname- Subti? Texty? S-T? STD? yesss, STD. Sub-Text Discourse. Sybil was also trying to figure out whether or not she really wanted a narrator to hitch onto her implicit life. Or was she simply afraid to know thyself? She could hear STD cracking up. Sybil got to her feet and whilst wondering where sub-text began and she ended, she decided on a test.
"So, are you capable of helping me out with this humor thing?" (What she really meant was: "Can you give me what i want?"
"I can only do post-treatment. Reflection. Digestion. Afterthoughts. Etc. With maybe just a hint of anticipated double-entendre, if you know what YOU mean...that is."
"Figures..is there anyone else in there who can give me a hand? My funny side, maybe? A gag writer lurking in the wings?"

There was a long pause. STD reflected that Sybil could hear her uncle Sadge having a coughing fit next door. Unable to find a remedy over these past few months, she just wished he would be quiet.
Hard to be funny when you're trying to keep control.
"That's a start! Enough with linear reflection." Sybil changed tack and reached for the old radio, turning up that old song to the maximum static threshold:

It's all about timing (teeda).
It's all about giiiiraffes.
It's all about jews and the bush,
blondes and the tush.
(Tada dada dada DA!)
It's all about... idiosynchrosy (teeda).

It's all about falling so low

that the hit makes the punchline

bring home the shame to you,

but ob-ject-ivity makes for


'cause sooner or later

you'll get hit with tomato

and the fool who'll be singing iiiiz you!

While STD was concerned about what was going on, trying to get a handle on Sybil, she was off to make sure Grandpa peed in the right spot. Any and every moment was ripe with humorous potential but our long lives give our innocent joys an improper mangling. Sybil didn't feel like giggling at Grandpa's forgetfulness- today the plant pots, tomorrow the umbrella holder. She had sub-text on her mind, and this STD was back on track, paralleling and countering all her rapid switchbacks.
But then STD flinched. Sybil was reaching for a poem... oh no! not a poem!! Sub-texts don't know what to do with poems. THOSE intercourses just lead to a squash-ball game in a hall of mirrors!

Sybil knew she had got STD into a corner. So she swallowed the poem and ran off down the stairs, jumped on to her bicycle and rode with the flowing night air. STD was worried, fading, awash with the shallow current, the present reduced to an all-encompassing bubble of time. It's all about timing. If there is no later than now, then who needs sub-text. (Unless you're lloking for sex, of course!)
Sybil rode and began to rave out strong & loud to get the pretext to initialize instantanealism with the mutter of the beckoning rhythm and the sacred incantation of the poem:
(take R out of boring)
(take the R OUT of BORING)
(TAKE the R OUT of BOrING)

Ahhhh, the froggy smells of spring spring to my nose like welcome doglicks lapping through an avalanche repose. Ohhhh, the blinking carlights light up their turning flanks like anxious children tugging at their parent's pants.
The seasons and streets alternate pulses pulsing nervous air
like red and blue blood chilling heat flashes thru my hair.
The well-adjusted street clocks mark marks in my bicycle's belt as the wheels reel past tttttick-tocks bouncing off the cobblestone's pelt.
Gingerbread regurgitations rise forth frothing tasty bubbles
into my low-hanging raving sleepless mouth starving for a jam-colored pillow.

And so it was that STD subsided, disgusted. And so it was that Sybil did not know what to think anymore, and felt at peace. Chaos. She had found the vaccination for her new fever. Yet a little voice could be heard whispering into the fractals of her mind:
"And so, what did you mean, anyway?"
STD had a little weapon of its own, doubt. And so it was that Sybil's bicycle veered off course, and she found herself plopped into a pile of droppings. One of the old poos cleared its' throat and declared: 'Sometimes, you have to laugh to keep from crying.'

(poem written in 1995, piece written Feb.1 2010)


fingerpoet said...

i am so happy the poo was finally given a voice. i love your writing. i get it. and, i fell gotten. thanks.

Masharius said...

slightly rearrange the pictures in this story board and apply to open wounds