Plimp on maneuvers. Swinging ho'ropes from the nose. Hirtops from the
treetops, the treecups. Tricot treecups on apricots. Tritots, trikes,
tater-tots in treecups, in the scuppers, Laura Scudders in the scuppers.
Tree-tots in Om-Cradles in the boughs.

+++

Tearing words out of my flesh now. Pump you fuckers! PUMP GOGDAMMIT!
Smoking words out of my frankinflesh.

Turn, cogs, sweetly. Oil up the grind-gears. New flies for the
flywheels. Fresh hamsters and horsies! The stands are filled with chunk-
cheers and horsies.

+++

The looser the noose, the freer the goose!

What a gooseball! Let's play a game of gooseball this afternoon. A
goos. That's what geese are called in the Netherlands. Hallo, I am Anders
Goos.
 
Loose all the gooslings. Goslings in slings, loosed at the faces of
Goliath. They're slender goner-goslings with plastic explodo beaks and
prehensile toes. Daughter goslings standing on the goslines. Gas-powered
goslings on the gasoline lines. "We're working on solar and nuclear
powered goslings," say the riders in the saddles, leaning down from
goose-down horsies.
 
We're goslings without a goose. We're goslings loose, jostling
loose, loose changes in the gosling pockets. Goslink packets heading
through routers, like little golden photon eggs. Electronic data eggs for
e-Aster. Squeamish goslings squatting on little squamous eggs of data-
gold. Hatching horsies?