Saturday, May 05, 2007

Dear George,   Thy Word is a light unto my feet, And a lamp unto my path.   A little snippet of liturgy from the pinko United Church of Christ gives an ironic twist to my letter.  They sing praises to God’s Word; I sing praises to Yours.    Thy Words are little bubbles of methane, wafted along by thermals of hot air until they strike the pinprick of reality, pop, and fill our nostrils with their perfume.  The repetitive popping of your bubbles provides the backbeat to your favorite dance:  the Hubric Hustle.   Better than Acid Rock, it struts the boards with spasmodic jerks executed to a cacophony of breaking bones and tearing flesh.  It is a light show of exploding arcs of white phosphorous that provide a descantian hiss of burning tissue to your song sung in discordant notes tumbling earthward along a descending B-minor scale.   Who said song and dance was dead?   Your admirer, Belacqua Jones     6:18:31 AM    comment []

comment []