(Like the Muffled Roar of a Corporate Giant) which you may call a fantasy
Welcome to my series of utterly honest
sarcasms, bitter to the core, each with its
own violently clever and overwrought (one
and all!) twist that makes one wonder if I’m
possibly this stupendous or if I’m merely
lucky to bend a few attenuated ears with a
garden variety of half-baked jokes, ha ha,
which are quite possibly aimed at countless
dull replicas of our very own selves, Dear
Degreed Purveyors of Enlightened (known
colloquially as Illusioned) Guesses. A rather
lavishly fluid volume of, let’s just go ahead
and call them postmodern aggregations of
memoria, each one built, if you will, upon
its own wondrously appropriate paper head-
stone; each grave (or any assemblage of
graves) to be interpreted as nothing less than
a mockery of all poetic traditions, espoused
or otherwise. And yet, each blithe construct
is a scientifically sound disputation of the
very poignant, earnest, brilliantly straight-
forward argument or narrative – that is,
the very carcass – ensconced within each
brilliant contraption; individual ‘disputation vs.
straightforward narrative’ duets can by gosh
downrightly be summed up as disposable ‘get
on over yourself’ sermonettes craftily parlayed
tongue-in-cheekly as choruses to an endless knell, and always a sly misreprentation
of the deviant, My Own True Selves, sung
just as deservedly to all kith and kin who
spend their days, their nights, their final
breaths languishing in the company of our
words, wordettes and wordy wordisms.
In toto, I might add, because it should be
iterated, these incomparable casements
encompass a fabulously excruciating
excess of divinely harmonic redundancies,
deliciously rabble-rousing bon mots, and
just plain inimitable sentences, which to a
T are gloriously impossible to repeat
unscriptedly, and naturally inconceivable
to utter in completion without the loving
assistance of at least one strong arm
slipped deep and ever so graciously
up into the whatever utterer’s wazoo.
