greasy on the accident grass. Summer with a knife. The bees
haunt the beesting grass. In the little white flowers the bees.
They hunger for the feet of children, to "teach them a lesson".
Something about how you must not presume that the soft grass
of summer doesn't have bees in it. Bees and unfallen shoes just
waiting to ambush you. Closets full of unfallen shoes ready to
spill down onto your head when you least expect it. Unfallen
shoes and unstung bees. And bushes waiting to ambush you
with their noxious oils.

The pernod signal snog on the radar bog, a bog of signals in the
low spots in the frequentic continuum, the pentatonic continuum,
the quintinuum. The quintissential continuum, the archetypal
pentatonics, five pentominos between us and malarkey! Five
fingers between us and doom! Five schillings are the only thing
lying between us and armageddon!

Five fingers and espadrilles for the Signals traders. Standing their
with their portable silly oscilloscopes. Watching the green tracings
on the Exchange's huge oscilloscopes. Offering platinum, soybeans,
robobeans, coffee, FCOJ, light sweet crude, anything they have just
for the heavenly ecstasy of those lovely, lovely signals!

Solley's Fifth Adventure

Giggling at the gossamer thoughts. Gigging in a gossamer chaise.
Giggling in Gossamer Class

I perpetrated my people in a fog of rebellion
I perpetrated my people in a gossamer fog
I perpetrated my people in a gossamer rebellion

Spending the evening in Karma Cotillion, with the hindu debs
The hindu debutantes in Dharma Cotillion
Spreading his hands at Karma Cotillion

Pariah on the horizon
Summer's on the rim of the world
Waiting just beyond the rim of the world
For someone to invite her in

Fucking up by the foghorn. One thousand frequency clusters. Long-chain
frequency proteins seething about in the cacophonous surf. Down by the
surf, the white noise contains many potential songs and stories. This is
why I must move and live at the beach. I want to take dictation from the
surf.

She's a milk fantasy. Could you be any more milky? She's a living milky
way, galactic in my living room, starry-eyed in my satin sheets. After
dusk in my whispering bedroom, in a windy night in the canyons, the
trees rustle horses from the nearby corrals, the trees rustle the nickering
horses out of their dreams for a moment or two, throwing a spray of leaves
or a broken branch into the paddock.

Mike and the ballboy. The balls of the blue boy. That's why they call him
blueboy. It's really Napoleon in disguise.