THE STRIPED ROMPER SUIT OF YOUTH An Organic Novelette by
Janet The Lizard-Suited Xtremist
CHAPTER I... After suitable refreshment, the County Council Stork waved us through. We bowed graciously taking care not to snag our shetland plimsolls on the guns of the mounting crowd that had gathered to see our departure.
Covering our footsteps with the dust of egrets, we hopped into the mind of a waiting rhubarb flan and swam away into the inky vista which would, when ignited by the light of day, unfold and display its awesome secret.
By reversing the polarity of our brains, we could think about yesterday the night before we wanted to in so doing (Not sure about this bit... Ed.)
We were innocent to the chuckle of the bent railings as it stalked our aging Morphy-Richards auto-toaster, which lagged behind due to its twisted flex.
Little did we know that, in a thought's time, we would have the dope squid searching our puncture repair kits, full by the way of glue, french chalk and igneous samples, just in case you thought that we were unintelligable.
"Phew..." expounded Ricky as Ma Bunty Rickshaw, our youthful and utterly useless cook slashed his leg off in another vain attempt to fry an egg.... The Stripped Romper Suit Of Youth?
Take a tip from my book Stebbins, I'd steer clear of that lot, if I were your pile of old Beanos...
Thargo Limp the Brain Pattern Machine.
Oil toucan in the porch,
Egon Ronay's baking tin,
Imrat chrysalis temperature range.
Eating rhinos I'm not keen, Largo the old dowager carpet.
"Eek EEk EEEK!" came the contralto squeek from the patrolling night pelican; it was caught attempting to rustle Old Farmer Trouser Cupp's nine ton man eating eagle moo moo's.
"Eat chrome, Lounge roamer, sleep on stars, Silver."
"Ho ho", he murmered, "Burn tins, well okay. Blow windmills, Norse traders."
"Iss off" retorted the squid fishermen.
Blow bubbles Delilah, you neanderthal scrubber
Olympus jet, hedge your bet
Thrakon olo mytad
Listen to the J.P.S. on the modo tran rad.
Norris the Equipment, get thee awa' tee a taxidermist.
Pinch your fingers in the door
Aw! But Maw, I jus' want some more!
Quosh the fire of your ill-spent passions in paraffin.
Eat the passion of Joshua Pipkin.
Container bin, electromatic
Zeigle Zeibart chronostatic
Ick ick ick iiiiick gummy poo
Don't put your boots in wombat's doo
Zardle zardle throwt mac bean
Zemble zemble Ed Octareen
Glasses contained in polychromatic
The hangman's noose makes me ecstatic
Canadian cheddar in my lunchpack
Completes the lunch in my luncheon snack.
We're having a gheet wave! A Bohemian gheet wave!
So it's hardly uretic, this rhyme is pathetic.
I've unchained my davit, well if you won't have it.
My barn is on fire! My barn is on fire!
If the flames get much higher
Its contents will expire.
We're having a gheet wave!
"I'm not afraid... but Mummy, those weather balloons!"
"They're not balloons, but the shrieking peacocks of the fervant maz daz festering age, Ezra!"
God's hindquarters and a pound of sheep's lights, Mr McKuen, Go sleep in a bloodstained hammock by the fire of Crancran McTeagle. Gheen Gheen (The bees arrive on stage) Someone get the smoke and we'll have a bee's-up, Thort Thort Argle O'Pontank.
The University Of St.Mary's; The Scabbed Knee Elopement wishes to inform all Pair-Ants, who deposit their kids at the school at 08:30 hours, that the school will be closed for the acoustic traps to be emptied. The sight of dead acoustics tends to upset the under-7s. The sheep stealing classes for the over-12s is cancelled because someone stole the sheep.
CHAPTER II, IT SAYS HERE...
So how's your action GREENBOY!! Oh look Mum! Egon Ronay's on the menu, Brian tore his gumboots.
Post it on billboards
Shout it through tunnels
Paint green mice on pink shepherds
Shout it down tunnels (small pause)
Throw red beakers down mauve Magi, catch heron like they were going out of style, implore dutch eels to marry you. You cast doubt on three throne gates. Explain to your friends why I say these things. Play Catch with six-lane highways; I can be in only one place at any time but, between us, we can rule the unknown psyche of millions of crab-eating penguins. Green dwarves gaze in stupendous horror, as the grotesque re-enactment of Grecian can only be opened on Sundays. We dare not go on but must return.
Chrome Molypistions ate Ego Sand-Bitches. Samurai warriors cut garlic-sausage meat with in-built precision, almost as if they had prior knowledge of the event.
"Deja-vu? No, I've just had an anti-flu injection, or was it heroin? You just can't tell nowadays, can you?"
Morovian egg squares supplant the old necrophile. The qualls beckon small Kandinsky mice. Large egrets swallow small nickeracts in an attempt to become immortal.
Candlewax bees squirt honey into the eyes of passing retrievers. Small decadent ash-bins throw purple light on Glomshrent Bards. The plastic cup could not equate with the mauve beakers and therefor felt ashamed; Didn't we all? Marg'tubs, who longed to be pyrex mixing bowls, held rallies and clenched whelks in vices.
Three cranes on a globe
Tighten up your well-stained robe...
Well, Muldoon, we didn't make it! The All-Change at Prestwick was not called and here we are in Crewe. Did you see the lazy geneologist dancing with a Moroccan prince?
Elegg Prancer the Catched-Up Racehorse tightened his cones with an egg-spune. The spanner, unbeknownst to his horseship, was coated with a gelatinous white ozone called Egg.
Later that millenia, the spune-spanner slipped, throated the Coplex implement and slashed his nadgers.
"Oh oh!" he crooned as the Coplex juice strained through a horse-hair mattress, the moral of this tale being... (MORAL WILL NOW BE LISTED)
Make absolutely sure no sharp nick-nacks are hanging or thanging when adjusting THE CONEX OF GLOBES on a horse-hair couchez ne pas quelle heure est-il mon sewer spunet zube tuba build thermionic crane dances.
SPLEENNNNN multi threep
Cronsem Crunel
Barthlip Protitalactic
Amoeba(ic) jam
Shreddies are deelep gone ex-pleet
ZUUBE KRAAMELORP
Armless squid flash chromium eyes at me, along the endless space-time aura of the motorway. Red/amber worms of light snake across time like slow-motion sheep in an autumn supermarket. Black canvas tents flap like vizigoth bats in a belltower of neon-mean Greenland mosquitos.
Real astro cats purr on Venus gas ovens lust for automatic toasters. Seals pour from pangolin scales old beakers groan at FM.
Empty tins of energy
Blonde blood on walls
Mrs. Elmer Fagbox Quail screams
Come and get your porridge
Small bearings conga to Verdi operas
Advantage Lava
Balls, he shreiked, I'm in bed
Two small leopards
The Tame Pea-Foul of Co-existence climbs a tree, to find the nest of carpet covered in snowflakes, proving that Dan Dare's poodle synthesiser was made in orange agouti china.
"Porcelain? No, she would have wanted to go that way."
Pontius Pilot had an eyelet in the lobe of his left ear from which he dangled a cocker-spaniel. Kay Sera Sera, The Speaking Beakers of Oxerlene bow and are pleasantly surprised, when beans flow like syrup and eggs are always on tap. The ecclesiastic youth onion points a bony digit towards Selene.
Astral hordes play ping-pong with the green washing beakers of Ghengis Khan. Two dogs bark at Semprini Seranade, the fools. Princess of excess mourn the passing of equestrian statues. We all relate!
We roll skin joints and excite swans, as they swim across our minds.
We roll mind joints and our bodies chatter with the grace of a teleprinter. We draw crests on the bottles of our memories. We excite bloodless chameleons to dance with our glazer-thoughts. We listen to music that hits our beaks. Blind guitars walk down Oxford Street, sheets of ice ignite sporadic gunfire in The Temples of Ancient Graceless. Did you get it on in the back seat of a piano?
We draw on resources, usually found only in bowling alleys. Squid shine, dance like rhinestone madonnas in a grim Saturday mist.
Vera, The Last Brunette In A Bottle, is in a celluloid catastrophe. I will sell my story to anyone with a silken tongue and calm white thighs.
Red moons play green calypso rhythms, about which must revolve iconoclastic night cranes. Duck! The ice-bucket is stalking the gin bottle and I haven't seen you in sixteen months. The mother, or any other ship, will unite us under orbitless heavens or galactic luminessence. We shall not be separated, I am shortly leaving my mortal mind. I am consumed by total owls in hard dry cane outlines of nihilistic dry cane figures, put that in your scrapbook, canticle amoeba. Fish swim by night, nightmare horses dance on cadavers of long gone autumnal princesses. Passing eggs play tricks on the dogs' moving parts, sparks fly from small beaks as clowns glue small toads back-to-back.
Geese haunt real trees, know it? Voles stalk policemen in downtown Manhattan, flowers bloom in Dickie's ears. Ages have passed and people have died in green, say green, hamlets. Capsules of pus grow dim in the occultists' dreams of a lent lunch. Candles and crisp snow don't mix, but Mother will make it! Well, how else are we to pay the milk bill?
H.M.S. Jackanory is just a figment of our collective imaginations. Cylinders in groups of three will mail past us in chrome moly with black fins.
"And remember, young Ullactrom, don't mix with any old Tom, Dick or Gwen, only the big boys with pendant-like foreskins, dugout canoe!"
"Storage radiators, my ass!" shrieked the Quoon. "I want jam, not effin' firebricks in a cup, enamel coat!"
Metal is relevant; the ground lowered in a hushed creak, as if the lid was being torn from a crate of mangos, where, by a cement-mixer...
Thardle Seal the Necro-Crane
Neorealistic
Eat a pen on Wed-nes-day
Tadpoles taste like biscuits.
Argle thread porbeagle shark knit.....
But Pa! I'm the only kid on the block
Called Aerosol Cannister III
King Canute had a newt
Willi ding orlakston
Beano crad McTurtle
Come on, fold my blanket!
Thick cream oozed from the dwarf's beard
Which he thought was rather wierd.
(To be sung barndance style)
Lick your lips, bite your nose
Borrow concrete for your toes
Phallic geese blue bread flute
Original antelope from the moon
Decode Angie, bebop-a-June.
Razzle Bathbone.
Go draw Letraset illiads on the minds of conservationists.
Librato chutney, go electric?
Susan beam light anthracite
Electro gonad pool
Dip the eel and shave the cat
Mediocratic spool.
Cereal sheet polocrat symphothetic itch
Pools of spoon monocrat
Blue glue on the fish
I would use a filing cabinet
In which to store my Beanos
Electroplate the business shard
Piles don't like Eno's
Go crate apples in your Grannie's vineyard
Steel ablution equipment
Pinch a dog and decimation
Bananas, eggloo anti-creation...
Fruit eels swing from trees like greasy macaroni which is hollow, but to continue, grease drips from the pen of J.R.R.. Small cats mew in fear of their mittens. Goliath loves his mum, for real. Code of plates, you realist! Snap open my throttle, Biggles, hand me my pint mug and shaving brush, the wallaby is in range. Splut, grunion soup no less! Crescendo of bells, ding ding!
Do not see me as the beaches retreat, portly women in straight-back chairs tie knots in the porcelain penguins serving the Duchess who is trying to hatch a blow lamp.
"Ouch!" she purrs, as the hot end brushes the elder of the three pigeons who refuse all but seed-cake and croatian nut-meggins.
Small germinating seedlings dance to the coatish music of the stereo cement-mixer. Macrame policemen strive to attain one-ness with the individual fruit-pie. Still, back to the salt cellar, where the lightswitches play contented sonatas on rusty hexagrams. Megaton popcorn salesmen equate endless possibilities, they play soft cheese rhapsodies on cheesegraters.
"Anyone for a quick bolero? No thanks, I've just put one out, McTeagle!"
Sheep, disguised as sago puddings, tap sprightly tunes on disused railway lines. Angels harvest mustard and cress and create abstract thoughts of railway tunnels. Dingos bay at Heugenot reprisals, as the beach of pre-dawn desire awakes to find the cactus of neo-conciousness pricking my memory.
Obese lizards play cards and long to be at home. Small garden sheds wish to be palaces. Marble effigies collate their lost chips, wishing that they had never been quarried. Neo-realist dreams of long-dead dictionaries pass raindrops in soiled cloth caps from Man To Beast, in the hope of forgiveness.
Contralto box files long for the day when, with one accord, they can erupt and become forests of filing cabinets, in Urban Eutopia's guardrooms, near the sentry boxes of existence, screaming for the right to become dovecots. The Swollen Larynx of Expectancy waits behind every door!
Fall into slotted channels, you named Princess of Rangoon, tilt ageing authors into mirrored budgies, fall headlong into youth with the abandonment of an iceberg. Gain points and do things with a van, but best of all... RELATE!!!
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