but kept winding up in a library, wound-up as tight as a spring day, skipping a time-jump on page 532 of Wells's well, that deep dark thing of hard-time walls and bottomless as yesterday's tomorrows and the death of a rat-titty-tat old clicker and its celebration kegger -- hic! -- for he was a jolly good typewriter which nobody could depress the tab key of the cab of mourners, mourning Olivetti's loss to the Word and Its Maker and Its Spirit in the Sky, sky-writing a vision in doughy clouds of sandy-desert numerous pieces of bread, a monetary treasure-trove of appeasing and pleasing home-bakedness, roving after the Cleanly Detergent of Mixed Company, seated on that winged horse, lover of animals, doom-fated animals, lover of death on top of the still-dead typewriter as tranks of empassioned writing from the fingers on the bottom of the row of keys, to the bottom of the grave with the necrophiliac desecrator, down down down
I'm falling a phallus in the the whole of Mother Earth, as off to an unearthly mother goes the writer of type and friends of the fair-weather mourning, not mourning the run-out ribbon nor the near-run-out life in the bottom of the grave, that cesspool of concentrated elite-type conciseness which ought to be flushed and flushed it is is is, and right-o! boys flushed it is with a whirl and a twirl of the surrealistic pinkie it all goes whirling down down down
through all the levels, a heady dive down to your level, the place where your head is at and all in force, an all-forceful All of power, powered by twenty-three pairs of tiny tennis shoes with twenty-three pairs of tiny feet to stick in your mouth every time you open your stupid big mouth comes after me, molars and all and all-in-all, the all-powerful All of a deep dark well, well-fit for the deep-down darkness of the silken soft sides of your lying thieving dark mouth, stealing away with silken soft lies like a thief in the night folding his tent-boudoir for paramours of lying and laying, ignoring the truths of your harem of twelve laying upon me with their flails of french bread, a crusty dough to do what it does, beating me in and out of your grasp and with glassy-eyed stares, unconscious of the grind-mill of reverse bread-making, making me unconscious and stamping on my conscious the desire to be free of you and your wild Indian-Arabian odalisquaws tying me to a post, nailing me to a post and stamping my postmaker, Mark My Words, and dropping me down the chute, shooting me down the chute, down down down
the chute of the book return box at the library where I landed again after another deep-digging failure.