You Ain't Goin' Nowhere.
I've made through perennial amalgamation of knowledge you my bride and wife to be and see me for all I'm worth and while I'm inside of you you can call me husband without laughing cackles like scotch hissing as it crawls down throats and ruins marriages and effulgences. It's a matter of course, that of course (laughs) we'll be putting that portrait of Jesus above our bedpost as the kleptomaniac chooses his items in front of the storekeeper and the irascible our mighty Father whispering his recriminations now and forever amen.
My dear, I only hope that the minister is of interesting disposition because Lord knows your mom isn't going to hitch us with her tired eyes and sinking flowered Sunday mass satin hat. I'll reveal myself to you in front of God and an idiosyncratically pleasing genteel Pfaffer but not under the invidious eyes that have seen not the war but the result and the corpses walking back in the blood-masticated night like undead driven and droven down the rough, paved driveway which will always be the sensual preclude to a return to an unknown and not wanted to know clemency compared to the perpetual anxiety of the forest they had to mow on through without their victory pride but with weighted heads, weighted for getting closer to the ground nothing more. And she saw it all and I won't let her see this that she can look at and depreciate like the country maid getting ground up in the saw mill and over and over until she can finally see it in congruence with her dried tears that weren't soluble with the inveterate plaintivity of those goddamn eyes and that she couldn't cry even in the early years for those torn men. She could only cry for happiness and you know that I'm not a joking man and you're not a happy woman and we can only hope the priest coming on down in a frock made out of prenurtured laughs, and passable and pregnable eyes or some goddamn glasses that ingest his familiarized man-wife-make milieu.
Where is Joe Sans with his truck it's already four o'clock. Gonna need a truck for that walrus belly a yours.
My dear, I only hope that the minister is of interesting disposition because Lord knows your mom isn't going to hitch us with her tired eyes and sinking flowered Sunday mass satin hat. I'll reveal myself to you in front of God and an idiosyncratically pleasing genteel Pfaffer but not under the invidious eyes that have seen not the war but the result and the corpses walking back in the blood-masticated night like undead driven and droven down the rough, paved driveway which will always be the sensual preclude to a return to an unknown and not wanted to know clemency compared to the perpetual anxiety of the forest they had to mow on through without their victory pride but with weighted heads, weighted for getting closer to the ground nothing more. And she saw it all and I won't let her see this that she can look at and depreciate like the country maid getting ground up in the saw mill and over and over until she can finally see it in congruence with her dried tears that weren't soluble with the inveterate plaintivity of those goddamn eyes and that she couldn't cry even in the early years for those torn men. She could only cry for happiness and you know that I'm not a joking man and you're not a happy woman and we can only hope the priest coming on down in a frock made out of prenurtured laughs, and passable and pregnable eyes or some goddamn glasses that ingest his familiarized man-wife-make milieu.
Where is Joe Sans with his truck it's already four o'clock. Gonna need a truck for that walrus belly a yours.
posted by Der Schwanzmann at 8:32 PM
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