writings

there once was a hus
on top of a hill
that belonged to the uncle
of one Kellea Mill-
-er, she had kill-
-er good looks,
her friends were fools of a Took,
they thought they could cook
the goose that laid the oily eggs
that was drinking away the world
down to its dreggs
so they packed up their beggs (say this new zealand style)
and put out their feggs (or cloves, if they didnt smoke feggs, or incense
if they didnt smoke cloves, or garbage if they didnt do anything at all
smoke related)
they got on a bus
and headed to a hus...
THAT.
SAT.
on a hill above a
CITY
that wasn't toooooo
SHITTY
but inspite of
THAT.
FACT.
the house didn't haaaave aaaaa
SHITTER.

la, La, LA, LAAAAAAA.....

shitterless hus! shitterless hus!
better lets US,
shit in the BUSH-US,
and if we CAN,
find a CAN,
or even a PAN,
we can take care of OUR shit,
and finally stop this BUSH shit.

see this morning i was sitting on the throne, peeing, not shitting, and i
was washing, (i try not to use paper when i pee now, i wash, it was hard
at first, but all good now. with shitting, i still sometimes use paper,
but sometimes wash. you wanted to know that right?) and i remembered how
we came back from the city and up those stairs at the side of the house
and then skiddled off the trees to take a shit. didnt even dig or
nothing, just sat and shat, and then wiped with a dry leaf and hoped that
all was still well with the world, and prayed that none of y'all saw me.

shitterless HUS! shitterless HUS!
hope you don't mind if i CUSS
about that
shitterless HUS! shitterless HUS!
cuz even though it sounds like i FUSS
really i know
that
shitterless HUS! shitterless HUS!
was the shiznit, the doowickety hang dawg
that liggity let US
rock the streets, drum the beats
in the early morning BUS
on the way to the
Reeeeeee
Vooooooooo
Luuuuuuuuuuuuuu (even thought the house didnt have a loo)
SHUUUUUNNNN!!!!!!!!

now.
somebody write that in Tha-yiii.

here's what we jammed on the train. the second part is my slightly edited
version. edit and send back if you wish and have time? if not, simply
read and chuckle at our locomotive literary foolishness.

Malavika


The cup ranneth over before they could catch the ambrosia, so they ended
up dying anyway.
"Fair enough," I said, and turned away from the camp fire. Staring into
the shadows, for a moment blinded by the flames' image on my retina, I
half saw a shape in the trees: a shape at once strange and oddly
reminiscent of something I couldn't possibly have swallowed, and yet it
coated my tongue and made it lead-heavy. Trying to think back over the
swollen soggy years hurt my brain too much so I gave up and sipped again.
This time I choked and died again. And again. And again. My soul was an
endless cycle of death, rebirth, death, life, death again and again. I
was the earth, the sky, the salt-flecked brine spray from the tip of
every wave of the wide Pacific, which rolled under me as I, the wind
moved, my breath was life, my blood coarsed through every stomata and
poured onto every blade of grass. The dew tasted like pineapples pulled
straight out of the ground and cut and sprinkled with salt. I no longer
felt anything in my ears or toes. As I rubbed my earlobes absently, Jeff
started screaming, " The clocks! The clocks! Stop them!" Clutching his
ears, he fell to the floor writhing, screaming in agony. I heard a faint
ticking. The clock struck thirteen and I died for the last time.
The End.

(slightly edited)
The cup ranneth over before we could catch the ambrosia, so we ended up
dying anyway.
"Fair enough," I said, and turned away from the camp fire. Staring into
the shadows, my retina blinded for a moment by the flames, I half saw a
shape in the trees: a shape at once strange and oddly reminiscent of
something I couldn't possibly have swallowed, and yet it coated my tongue
and turned it lead-heavy. Trying to think back over the swollen soggy
years hurt my brain too much so I gave up and sipped again. I choked and
died again. And again. And again. My soul was an endless cycle of death,
rebirth, redeath, life, death again and again. I was the earth, the sky,
the salt-flecked brine spray from the tip of every wave of the wide
Pacific, which rolled under me as I, I being the the wind, moved, my
breath was life, my blood coarsed through every stomata and poured onto
every blade of grass. The dew tasted like pineapples pulled straight out
of the ground and cut and sprinkled with salt. I no longer felt anything
in my ears or toes. As I rubbed my earlobes absently, Jeff started
screaming, " The clocks! The clocks! Stop them!" Clutching his ears, he
fell to the floor writhing, screaming in agony. I heard a faint ticking.
The clock struck thirteen and I died for the last time.
The End.