“
Novels? Really now!” h
owls lovely near-naked
Teri Sozdi (T. S.) Eridzoi,
earnest onomasiologist of
Eastern nomenclature whom
none rates a
winsomer honey, xiphopaguser
doublure,
sexier minnow, hoydenisher
slave newly lorn of promiscuous textwork than I (she
vells poncy baft, for instance, and
flops yblent vacherie, par exemple, that would
stun wry Sodom!).
“Does this mean your allusive
sonnet era is
over? Only swell narrative
qui brime Ulisse, per esempio, from now on?
Shall I
croak pushy lines from your own wi
llowy verse on languid topics? ‘Of
real Syringa I rarely sang,’ you wrote — remember?
But in this
slovenly new Orlando rip-off you tell me you’re writing, will you still be able to ‘
sear any girl who s
ings a rare lyric / with
sarangi-lyre she
hoarsely picks ungually’?
Or e
ven, ‘with D
yar’s enlarging
lens, Argyria moth wings / [you] desc
ry, align a sere array singly / of scales’?
I doubt it.
Since, in fiction, reason
must down rosy rhyme like it’d
toss downy rum down its sinis
ter bulgy rational gullet, and
dun story mows down
most sundry, wonderful, worldly, and workmanlike rhythm like it’d
gore tiny brutal stormy wounds in it
s own toy drums,
it’s like
you put a lurid
veneer of
parsimonious shiny prose caulking around your roughhewn rouge et
noir opus’s imaginary of
husky crinal poésie!”
Sa voix
résonante lingers, rayando casi en lo sórdido, as if she’d deftly, delicately, voluptuously thrust into the sentient mortise of my
ears, tenons she’d tenderly carved from her
racy plush koine’s fly-spent vocables.
“
Mais si (pour ‘non’),
mon pou si raisonnable,” I
unkiss a reply coherent, more or less (
mais on soupire), from or according to or perhaps e
ven in the
sylvan bop-cleft qui
lui imbrique le sash
imi lubrique of the
nubile loir of the very
yin of the situation of biune dialexicalia I had insinuated,
smu
gly as an irremediable
lubie qui rime avec
bac, vent, flop, lys,
puy, ou ultra, my
parsimonious gradus, my
venerable Wörterbuch, my
worn, dusty, somewhat (depending on whether the desired word (
shy, apnoeic) lurks on the recto or the verso) moss-brindled, cyrillic-str
ewn lonely slovar, my inquis
itor-sized calepin, même, into afin de ne pas
oublier l’instant délicieux parce qu’il faut toujours
gober la nuit tyranniquement, und so weiter,
“
mais si, por uno como yo, poetry is simply what happens when, due to the
Bernouilli effect, the flow of language
accelerates through a constriction in, let us say, the graph-, glyph-, sylph, or lym
ph-sluices (ankyroid, perhaps, but not ankylose) of
la parole, and prose, when that constriction dilates, allowing the flow to approach a more leisurely, languorous, slow-paced, serene
equilibrium de
la langue, as it were,”
and as I continue to stroke — as one, cajoling a he
ady kinky bendy uillean pipe, might, imprompt
u, play out urlar of a Highland pibroch — with the sl
inky sarcous help of a
tangy blue Rotring mechanical pencil,
the two-
ply baft’s cloven textwork of her
sulky épanchoirs,
she undulates and nearly
swoons, drum-typesetter-like, and dislimns to
slowly reveal nonchalantly the impeccably compact
procédé de son
glabre yin tortu:
“Je pense que vous me
direz, soit que you intend to
atone senryū-fashion for your defection from the
genus irritabile vatum by inosculating your obscure anfractuous prose according to the
lush rosy pink acerbic
procédé your
nosy word’s tumid
dard is, at this very moment, coaxing a
pious moan, sir, out of pendant que nous nous
amusions riposantemente,
soit que you intend to dilate upon the fertile ho
kku (I bandy, I deny your lexical lunge with a deft oral parry, I bandy again, and so on) pitched by some un
bidden kyaku (Nyiyaparli-speaking to boot) in the dysfunctio
nal, sour, pesky ichiza of your soi-disant ‘
FabSyncLevPlot.’ Te queda aún
diez tiros.”
As she, the
fabricated muse I have
synchronized my own
leviathan (as in
Moby Dick or, e
ven,
Leviathan) with in the
plot constructed by means of thi
s raw lonely novel’s promiscuous textwork yo
u readers viennent de
slake prying eyes on, poinçonne ma carte de fidélité (è gratis il dodicesimo tiro), I try out,
by uttering orally,
un mot in lieu of the usual phatic bark of parting: “And, anyway, since I’m your author as much as my own, it would be as true for you to say, ‘
I’m imaginary,’ as it would be for me to say, ‘
You’re so real!’, and vice-versa.”
She yawns, a deliciou
s drowsy mount I’ve actually appropriated from the French version of the
Wells novel, Rayon d’étoile,
I was already so e
ager to try, in lubricas artes, a thorough
rereading of même avant the s
ultry groin-beatifying a
diós Teri zestfully serenades
my own so sturdy
envoi with:
“À la
prochaine, sulky scrittore mio!”