Handcuffs of my Toughened Shoes
(The following cut up prose was completely computer generated using my proprietary GYSINscript software–M.L. Rudolph)
Handcuffs of my toughened shoes. The pussy pavement whips me degraded shoe leather emasculated rolled craps I'm less than broke and the cigarettes bum me. Mary Virago Married Vance Marie remarried. Supper, sure what? Fuddruckers? They closed. The Fridge? I don't have “Stoolgang Puck” & his gourmet cardboard slabs how ‘bout a nutritive enema as a change o’ pace just kidding what else, Stouffer’s––so please Mary I don't know who can have what they don't know. I work, relieved to pay. I don't know who can't have what they do know. I don't know eggsalad divorce. Who's getting the desire anymore to desire things? Shut up, you or me—every Spirit concentrates a handcuff on what is traced. I used to pay. Mother is a handcuff on the term “Oedipus dreck.” I don't do the housebody pantomime; I flee the coop, and you took a hike from the co-op with daddy’s war bucks so what are you lookin' at me for all bank-vault eyes and your precognition of affairs before they even happen like some second floor psychic with pseudo gypsy Stevie Knicks wear from Famous Barr God only knows how many tears ago. I dunno know who can, don't have, and don’t know. I know. OK, I’ll try to hock my wheat penny to Legs if the ole pissbucket calls me back. Ideals: a girl's desire becomes a woman’s a certiorari writ—dames are soft but dizzy & complex and high maintenance like a co-op with 3 underlying mortgages & the taxes, always the value subtracted taxes—you look old at heart and I’m a night liar—Look, you got a big mouth! Very memory water day. Regulatory waters are attempts to know mother government and ex libertarians are old hat or at least the vegetable. She chimney sweeps my soul after this whole deal. Their honorable discharge like you do mother, please Marie. I would pal of mine. I don't know who, indeed, but that Legs he is an old pissbucket...what a card he is...a retired Achilles policebag living on his strong leg...First of the rocks. Not worth a nickel to sexually applied glue. I take complaints. Look out. Please Marie. Max, I got complaints. Fuddruckers' fruitcake my memory is herded across circumspecimens, single dingle please Mary–completely closed to psychosexual possession, complex denote. I don't know eggsalad divorce. Whereas throne it. Anybody. Kindly take me in but look. Legs, that old pissbag, he would trade a bucket of rust for a bucket of rust just for the action. I would pal of blood and this whole whale me business– every Spirit pal is long gone. Whoopies. Brown billionaire the trout. I know. The sexually discrete French-Canadian beat her. Ok, ok, I would sock him. Ok, ok, I want the House of Stout for psychosexual post–vacation ballet, just you and me on the corner. OK, OK, I’ll see if I can hock it to Legs Zircon, that old Depends rag––If this you or me business–every half hour on the hour like New York News weather on the ones Louis Dodley probably has the scoop on our pfffft & her misery spirit concentration ballet had a sharp conceited “don’t give me that look” ringing in my ears. It is a handcuffed anxiety, a Hollywood of doubt. Legs the ignoble pissbucket tried to pay me with Canadian coins––I’ll be flogged with feline whips–And while it's water day again. Liquid pools coming in. I’d cry but the tap needs a wrench.