Datasets:

Hellisotherpeople

/

Lipogram-e

like 1

FINIS A VOID

UNOIA

for Hans Arp

Awkward grammar appals a craftsman. A Dada bard as daft as Tzara damns stagnant art and scrawls an alpha (a slapdash arc and a backward zag) that mars all stanzas and jams all ballads (what a scandal). A madcap vandal crafts a small black ankh – a hand-stamp that can stamp a wax pad and at last plant a mark that sparks an ars magna (an abstract art that charts a phrasal anagram). A pagan skald chants a dark saga (a Mahabharata), as a papal cabal blackballs all annals and tracts, all dramas and psalms: Kant and Kafka, Marx and Marat. A law as harsh as a fatwa bans all paragraphs that lack an A as a standard hallmark.

Hassan Abd al-Hassad, an Agha Khan, basks at an ashram – a Taj Mahal that has grand parks and grass lawns, all as vast as parklands at Alhambra and Valhalla. Hassan can, at a hand clap, call a vassal at hand and ask that all staff plan a bacchanal – a gala ball that has what pagan charm small galas lack. Hassan claps, and (tah-dah) an Arab lass at a swank spa can draw a man’s bath and wash a man’s back, as Arab lads fawn and hang, athwart an altar, amaranth garlands as fragrant as attar – a balm that calms all angst. A dwarf can flap a palm branch that fans a fat maharajah. A naphtha lamp can cast a calm warmth.

Hassan asks that a vassal grant a man what manna a man wants: Alaskan crabs, alfalfa salad and kasha, Malahat clams, lasagna pasta and salsa. Hassan wants Kalamata shawarma, cassabananas and taramasalata. Hassan gnaws at a calf flank and chaws at a lamb shank, as a charman chars a black bass and salts a bland carp. Hassan scarfs back gravlax and sprats, crawdad and prawns, balks at Parma ham, and has, as a snack, canard à l’ananas sans safran. Hassan asks that a vassal grant a man jam tarts and bananas, jam flans and casabas, halva, pap-padam and challah, babka, fasnacht and baklava.

Hassan can watch cancan gals cha-cha-cha, as brass bands blat jazz razzmatazz (what a class act). Rapt fans at a bandstand can watch jazzbands that scat a waltz and a samba. Fans clap as a fat-cat jazzman and a bad-ass bassman blab gangsta rap – a gangland fad that attacks what Brahms and Franck call art: a Balkan czardas, a Tartar tandava (sarabands that can charm a saltant chap at a danza). Bach can craft a Catalan sardana that attracts l’Afghan chantant à l’amant dansant. A sax drawls tantaras (all A-flats and an A-sharp): fa-la-la-la-la. A maraca rasps cantatas. A lass as sad as a swan twangs a glass harp.

Hassan can ask that a barman at a bar tap a cask and draw a man a draft (half a dram, a glass): marc, grappa and armagnac, malt, arrack and schnapps. Gangs that act as crass as Harvard grads at a frat (Gamma Kappa Lambda) clack tankards and gawk at a gal, as a gal dabs at black mascara. Rash lads that harass vamps and bawds catcall a brash tramp: ‘caramba – what a tart’. A bacchant lad asks a madam (as drachmas pass hands): ‘what carnal acts can a man transact?’ A gal can grab a man’s balls and wank a man’s shaft; a man can grasp a gal’s bra and spank a gal’s ass. A clasp snaps apart, and a scant shawl falls.

Hassan wants a catnap and grabs, as a calmant, hash, grass and smack, khat, ganja and tabac – an amalgam that can spark a pharmacal flashback. Hassan falls slack, arms asprawl, and has a nap that spawns dark phantasmata. Satan stands back, aback a damask arras, and draws a fractal mandala – a charm that can trap what a Cathar savant calls an ‘astral avatar’ (part man, part bat – all fang and claw) – a phantasm that can snarl and gnash at a carcass. A fantast chants ‘abracadabra’ as a mantra, wags a wand, and (zap) a sandglass cracks. A hag as mad as Cassandra warns a shah that bad karma attracts phantasmal cataclasms.

Hassan balks at all sacral tasks – a mass at Sabbath, a fast at Ramadan: ‘what Kabbalah and Brahmana can match blackjack and baccarat?’ Hassan brags that a crackajack champ at cards lacks what knack Hassan has at craps. A cardsharp, smart at canasta, has a scam: mark a pack, palm a jack. (A cardmatch can act as a starchart that maps fata arcana.) A shah hazards all cash, stands pat and calls. A fatal pall wracks a casbah, as a charlatan fans a grandslam hand (‘damn, darn, drat’ rants a braggart). A rascal salaams and thanks Allah that a bank can award a man a stash that dwarfs what alms a raj can amass.

Hassan drafts a Magna Carta and asks that a taxman pass a Tax Act – a cash grab that can tax all farmland and grant a dastard at cards what hard cash Hassan lacks. Hassan asks that an apt draftsman map what ranchland a ranchhand can farm: all grasslands and pampas, all marshlands and swamps, flatlands and savannahs (standard badlands that spawn chaparral and crabgrass). Hassan asks that all farmhands at farms plant flax and award Hassan, as a tax, half what straw a landsman can stash at a barn. A ranchman at a ranch warns campagnards that a shah has spat at hard-and-fast laws that ban cadastral graft.

Hassan can tax a Saharan caravan that carts packs and sacks past bazaars at Aswan and Rabat, Basra and Dakar. Stalls at all marts hawk Baccarat glass. Stands at all malls hawk Macassar brass. A haggard almsman can drag a handcart and hawk glass jars (racks and racks): agar-agar – dammar lac and balsam sap (half a franc, a flask). A drab washman, half-clad at a washstand, can wash afghans and caftans, sandals and tabards, as a ragman darns rags and hawks ragtag garb: slacks, pajamas and pants, scarfs, cravats and spats. A chapman at a standard hatstand can hawk panama hats, canvas caps and tartan tams.

Hassan can tax all banal trash that vagrants at a plaza pawn and swap: ant farms and lava lamps, rat traps and lawn darts – chaff and draff that jampacks all trashcans. A trashman and a scrapman can pawn scrap parts: fans, amps and a dashlamp, rads, cams and a camshaft, gas tanks and clamps, car jacks and straps, hand-cranks that can crank a crankshaft. A lampman at a lampstand can hawk Argand lamps (all brands): arc lamps and gas lamps, flash-lamps that flash at half a watt. A sawman can hawk all handsaws and hacksaws, all bandsaws and backsaws, sharp saws that saw apart a flat-sawn plank.

Hassan at Arab talks can canvass all satraps and ask that Arab banks back what grand plans Hassan has (dams and canals at Panama, arks and wharfs at Havana – tasks that, as a drawback, warrant what Hassan calls ‘a harsh tax plan’). Hassan lacks tact, and (alas) a rajah’s blatant sarcasm sparks a flagrant backlash as rampant as a vandal’s wrath. Hassan grandstands at a grandstand, as all thralls lash back, wag placards and rant a clamant rant. Arrant gangs clash and start brawls that trash rattan cabanas (what a fracas). A maharajah asks that a hangman hang all bastards and laggards that a lawman can catch.

Hassan can watch, aghast, as databanks at NASDAQ graph hard data and chart a NASDAQ crash – a sharp fall that alarms staff at a Manhattan bank. Hassan acts fast, ransacks cashbags at a mad dash, and grabs what bank drafts a bank branch at Casablanca can cash: marks, rands and bahts. Hassan asks that an adman draft a want ad that can hawk what canvas art Hassan has (a Cranach, a Cassatt and a Chagall). Hassan can fast-talk a chap at a watchstand and pawn a small watch that has, as a watchglass, a star padparadschah (half a grand, a carat). A shah can pack a bag, flag a cab and scram, catch-as-catch-can.

Hassan has a dacha at Kazakhstan, and at a small shack Hassan can hatch a dark plan. Hassan wants back what past landmass a shah has had (vacant tracts that span as far as Khanabad and Ashkhabad, Kandahar and Samarkand – landmarks that Kazakh anarchs smash apart and sack). Hassan can scan an atlas that maps Madagascar and all lands afar: Java, Malta and Japan, Chad, Ghana and Qatar, Canada and Lapland, Rwanda and Malabar. Hassan can scan an almanac that charts facts and stats at Dallas, Savannah and Atlanta (Kansas, Arkansas and Alabama). Hassan asks that banks at Warsaw and Gdansk fax Hassan a fax.

Hassan can start a war. Hassan marshalls an armada that can attack Javan wharfs at Jakarta. Hassan asks that all sampans trawl canals and chart thalassal hazards (sandbanks that can strand a small bark, cataracts that can thwart a balsa raft); catamarans as fast as narwhals dash past a sandbar and ram all naval craft that lack ballast at landfall. Masts snap. Spars warp. A gangplank cracks as backwash slams a carrack and swamps a canvas tarp (splash, splash). A raftsman and a hatchman bark ‘avast’ and clamp a hatch, as all hands man a capstan and tack landward, hard abaft. A damp flag flaps at half-mast.

Hassan can watch as all hands land a small warcraft and camp at a lava sandflat – a basalt strand that has tar sands as black as magma ash. Wasps and gnats swarm as all hands stack sandbags and start a spartan camp. A campman, smart at campcraft, can spark a match and warm an ashpan that thaws what hardtack a clan wants: bran mash and lard, spam hash and salt, ballpark franks and flapjack stacks (all starch and fat). A packman at camp packs a backpack, a knapsack and a packsack. A watchman stands watch, as all ranks at dawn act as pawns that can marshall adamant brawn and march a harsh warpath.

Hassan can watch as a marksman tracks a stag, a hart and a fawn, and at last bags a ram (a bwana as smart as Tarzan can trap all mammals: alpacas and llamas, caracals and pandas, aardvarks that can catch larval ants). Hawks and larks dart past tamaracks, as jackdaws and mallards flap past catalpas and land athwart a larch (sparhawks and caracaras scrawk at blackcaps and avadavats). A bantam jacamar can stand athwart a jacaranda branch and catch all scarabs that gnaw at sassafras bark. A jackal stalks an addax. A Manx cat nabs a pack rat. A black asp crawls past a sawgrass marsh that has algal tarns.

Macaws caw as a phalanx tramps past a tall alp (a stark crag that dwarfs all scarps and chasms), and at a dark pass all ranks halt, stand fast and attack a vast barracks that has ramparts and catwalks. A Spartan axman as stalwart as Ajax grabs an ax and hacks at a swart clansman: whack, whack. A Rwandan man-at-arms grasps an atlatl and casts a fatal shaft that can stab a grand marshall. A Slav warman as gallant as Galahad (and D’Artagnan) clasps a scabbard and draws a katana that can smash a man’s brassards and slash a man’s flancards. A sharp hand adz can bash a man’s arms and gash a man’s gams: swack, swack.

Alarms clang as a radarman tracks an attack craft that can jam radar and dart past flak at half a Mach: ack-ack-ack, rat-tat-tat. Vaward attacks blast apart hangars and tarmacs: blam, blam. Plasma blasts scald asphalt; napalm blasts parch macadam (glass shards act as haphazard abradants that sandblast all landwrack). Tanks clank and clack, as halftracks attack flatcars and tramcars: bang, bang. Cars and vans crash. A Mazda hatchback and a Saab smack a tram: wham, wham. A mad labman at a lab crafts an anthrax gas that can waft past all walls at a stalag and harm war camps that lack standard gas masks.

Hassan gags and has an asthma attack – a catarrh as fatal as lhasa and hanta. Cramps as sharp as darts and barbs jab and jag at gastral tracts. Carpal pangs gnarl a man’s hands and cramp a man’s palms. Hassan asks that a shaman abstract a talc cataplasm that can thwart a blatant rash (raw scars that can scar a man’s scalp and gall a man’s glans: scratch, scratch). A warm saltbath can blanch all plantar warts and stanch all palatal scabs. A transplant can patch a basal gland. A bald shah barfs and farts as a labman bawls: ‘plasma, stat’ (alas, alack: a shah has a grand mal spasm and, ahh, gasps a schwa, as a last gasp).

for Dick Higgins

Writing is inhibiting. Sighing, I sit, scribbling in ink this pidgin script. I sing with nihilistic witticism, disciplining signs with trifling gimmicks – impish hijinks which highlight stick sigils. Isn’t it glib? Isn’t it chic? I fit childish insights within rigid limits, writing shtick which might instill priggish misgivings in critics blind with hindsight. I dismiss nitpicking criticism which flirts with philistinism. I bitch; I kibitz – griping whilst criticizing dimwits, sniping whilst indicting nitwits, dismissing simplistic thinking, in which philippic wit is still illicit.

Pilgrims, digging in shifts, dig till midnight in mining pits, chipping flint with picks, drilling schist with drills, striking it rich mining zinc. Irish firms, hiring micks whilst firing Brits, bring in smiths with mining skills: kilnwrights grilling brick in brickkilns, millwrights grinding grist in gristmills. Irish tinsmiths, fiddling with widgits, fix this rig, driving its drills which spin whirring drillbits. I pitch in, fixing things. I rig this winch with its wiring; I fit this drill with its piping. I dig this ditch, filling bins with dirt, piling it high, sifting it, till I find bright prisms twinkling with glitz.

Hiking in British districts, I picnic in virgin firths, grinning in mirth with misfit whims, smiling if I find birch twigs, smirking if I find mint sprigs. Midspring brings with it singing birds, six kinds (finch, siskin, ibis, tit, pipit, swift), whistling shrill chirps, trilling chirr chirr in high pitch. Kingbirds flit in gliding flight, skimming limpid springs, dipping wingtips in rills which brim with living things: krill, shrimp, brill – fish with gilt fins, which swim in flitting zigs. Might Virgil find bliss implicit in this primitivism? Might I mimic him in print if I find his writings inspiring?

Fishing till twilight, I sit, drifting in this birch skiff, jigging kingfish with jigs, bringing in fish which nip this bright string (its vivid glint bristling with stick pins). Whilst I slit this fish in its gills, knifing it, slicing it, killing it with skill, shipwrights might trim this jib, swinging it right, hitching it tight, riding brisk winds which pitch this skiff, tipping it, tilting it, till this ship in crisis flips. Rigging rips. Christ, this ship is sinking. Diving in, I swim, fighting this frigid swirl, kicking, kicking, swimming in it till I sight high cliffs, rising, indistinct in thick mists, lit with lightning.

Lightning blinks, striking things in its midst with blinding light. Whirlwinds whirl; driftwinds drift. Spindrift is spinning in thrilling whirligigs. Which blind spirit is whining in this whistling din? Is it this grim lich, which is writhing in its pit, lifting its lid with whitish limbs, rising, vivific, with ill will in its mind, victimizing kids timid with fright? If it is – which blind witch is midwifing its misbirth, binding this hissing djinni with witching spiritism? Is it this thin, sickish girl, twitching in fits, whilst writing things in spirit-writing? If it isn’t – it is I; it is I …

Lightning flicks its riding whip, blitzing this night with bright schisms. Sick with phthisis in this drizzling mist, I limp, sniffling, spitting bilic spit, itching livid skin (skin which is tingling with stinging pinpricks). I find this frigid drisk dispiriting; still, I fight its chilling windchill. I climb cliffs, flinching with skittish instincts. I might slip. I might twist this infirm wrist, crippling it, wincing whilst I bind it in its splint, cringing whilst I gird it in its sling; still, I risk climbing, sticking with it, striving till I find this rift, in which I might fit, hiding in it till winds diminish.

Minds grim with nihilism still find first light inspiring. Mild pink in tint, its shining twilight brings bright tidings which lift sinking spirits. With firm will, I finish climbing, hiking till I find this inviting inn, in which I might sit, dining. I thirst. I bid girls bring stiff drinks – gin fizz which I might sip whilst finishing this rich dish, nibbling its tidbits: ribs with wings in chili, figs with kiwis in icing. I swig citric drinks with vim, tippling kirsch, imbibing it till, giggling, I flirt with girlish virgins in miniskirts: wink, wink. I miss living in sin, pinching thighs, kissing lips pink with lipstick.

Slick pimps, bribing civic kingpins, distill gin in stills, spiking drinks with illicit pills which might bring bliss. Whiz kids in silk-knit shirts script films in which slim girls might strip, jiggling tits, wiggling hips, inciting wild shindigs. Twin siblings in bikinis might kiss rich bigwigs, giving this prim prig his wish, whipping him, tickling him, licking his limp dick till, rigid, his prick spills its jism. Shit! This ticklish victim is trifling with kink. Sick minds, thriving in kinship with pigs, might find insipid thrills in this filth. This flick irks critics. It is swinish; it is piggish. It stinks.

Thinking within strict limits is stifling. Whilst Viking knights fight griffins, I skirmish with this riddling sphinx (this sigil – I). I print lists, filing things (kin with kin, ilk with ilk), inscribing this distinct sign, listing things in which its imprint is intrinsic. I find its missing links, divining its implicit tricks. I find it whilst skindiving in Fiji; I find it whilst picnicking in Linz. I find it in Inniskillin; I find it in Mississippi. I find it whilst skiing in Minsk. (Is this intimism civilizing if Klimt limns it, if Liszt lilts it?) I sigh; I lisp. I finish writing this writ, signing it, kind sir: NIHIL DICIT, FINI.

for Yoko Ono

Loops on bold fonts now form lots of words for books. Books form cocoons of comfort – tombs to hold bookworms. Profs from Oxford show frosh who do post-docs how to gloss works of Wordsworth. Dons who work for proctors or provosts do not fob off school to work on crosswords, nor do dons go off to dorm rooms to loll on cots. Dons go crosstown to look for bookshops known to stock lots of top-notch goods: cookbooks, workbooks – room on room of how-to books for jocks (how to jog, how to box), books on pro sports: golf or polo. Old colophons on schoolbooks from schoolrooms sport two sorts of logo: oblong whorls, rococo scrolls – both on worn morocco.

Monks who vow to do God’s work go forth from donjons of monkhood to show flocks lost to God how God’s word brooks no crooks who plot to do wrong. Folks who go to Sodom kowtow to Moloch, so God drops H-bombs of horror onto poor townsfolk, most of whom mock Mormon proofs of godhood. Folks who do not follow God’s norms word for word woo God’s scorn, for God frowns on fools who do not conform to orthodox protocol. Whoso honors no cross of dolors nor crown of thorns doth go on, forsooth, to sow worlds of sorrow. Lo! No Song of Solomon comforts Job or Lot, both of whom know for whom gongs of doom doth toll. Oh, mondo doloroso.

Porno shows folks lots of sordor – zoom-shots of Björn Borg’s bottom or Snoop Dogg’s crotch. Johns who don condoms for blowjobs go downtown to Soho to look for pornshops known to stock lots of lowbrow schlock – off-color porn for old boors who long to drool onto color photos of cocks, boobs, dorks or dongs. Homos shoot photos of footlong schlongs. Blond trollops who don go-go boots flop pompoms nonstop to do promos for floorshows. Wow! Hot blonds who doff cotton frocks show off soft bosoms. Hot to trot, two blonds who smooch now romp on cold wood floors for crowds of morons, most of whom hoot or howl: whoop, whoop.

Blond showfolk who do soft porn go to boomtowns to look for work on photo shoots. Molls who hobnob from mob boss to mob boss croon solos from old torchsongs. Molls who do so do so molto sordo – too slow for most crowds to follow, so most crowds scoff: boo, boo. Folks who do not know how to plot common chords for rock songs or folk songs soon look for good songbooks on how to do so. Folks too cool to go to sock hops go to Woodstock rock shows to do pot, not to foxtrot to Motown rondos of pop, bop or doo-wop. Congo bongos throb to voodoo hoodoo; tom-toms for powwows go boom, boom. Gongs go bong. Kotos go bonk. Horns honk: toot, toot.

Folks from Kokomo do lots of shrooms (not snow, not blow – no form of hops). Folks who long to prolong moods of torpor do Zoloft or nod off on two drops of chloroform. Goofs who goof off go off to poolrooms to jolt down lots of good strong bock from Coors or Stroh. Most tosspots who toss down jolts of Grolsch do so to drown sorrows. Poor sots, blotto on two shots of scotch, go loco for old port or hot grog. Lots of hobos who do odd jobs for food go off to work to work on jobs no boss stoops to do – jog brooms of soot, mop floors of loos. Old coots, known to go to grogshops for snorts of wormwood hooch, go on to mooch dogfood from dogs.

Snobs who go to Bonn for bonbons know how to shop for good food: go to Moncton for cod, go to Concord for lox. Cooks who know how to cook coq d’or cook cochon d’Ormont or cochon d’Orloff, not pork chops or pork hocks. Cooks who do not know how to cook posh food do not opt to shop for lots of tools: no woks, spoons or forks, no pots, crocks or bowls. Cooks from Foochow or Soochow chow down on two sorts of broth: oolong or wonton. Folks from Stockholm scoff down bowls of borscht. Folks too poor to chow down on bon porc or coq gros wolf down corncobs or corndogs. Moms cook hotdogs for tots who chomp on orts of popcorn.

Scows from London go to Moscow, not to Boston, to drop off bolts of mothproof cloth: wool for long johns, wool for work socks. Moors from Morocco, not from Kowloon, go to Oporto to drop off two sorts of orlon floss (both sold to commonfolk, most of whom know how to do clothwork on looms): spools of cord (for hooks to hook), spools of woof (for combs to comb). Folks who work on looms knot knots to form cloth goods for showrooms to show: cotton shorts or cotton smocks – lots of togs for fops who go from shop to shop to look for thong gowns, now worn to proms. Folks who don ponchos for comfort don boots or clogs to go for strolls on downtown docks.

Brown logbooks show how scows from Norfolk go from port to port to stow on docks tons of hotchpotch goods: tools from workrooms, props from workshops (cogs for motors, rods for rotors) – box on box of foolproof clocks, row on row of clockwork robots. Scows from Toronto tow lots of logs thrown onto pontoons: tons of softwood, tons of cordwood – block on block of wood good for woodwork: boxwood, bowwood, dogwood, logwood (most sorts of wood sold to workfolks who work for old wood-shops). Holds hold loot from Hong Kong or gold from Fort Knox. Old stockrooms stock lots of shopworn dross: doorknobs for doors, lockworks for locks.

Dhows from Colombo confront monsoons – strong storms known to slosh spoom onto prows of sloops. Folks who row old scows to cross floods of froth do not row scows worn down from wood rot (for most dolts who do so go forth, shorn of control, to rock, to roll, on storm-blown bobs of cork – now blown to or fro, now blown on or off, most known plots to known ports): whoosh, whoosh. Moms who sob for lost sons blow conch horns to honor poor fools who, thrown from port bows, go down, down, down (oh no) to drown – lost for good, now food for worms. Pods of octopods swoop down onto schools of cod to look for food: swoosh, swoosh.

Cold stormfronts from snowstorms blow snow onto fjords north of Oslo. Most storms howl for months: frost snows onto woods; froth blows onto rocks. From now on, snowplows plow snow. Cool brooks flow from grottos, down oxbows, to form pools or ponds. Long fronds of moonwort, known to grow from offshoot growths of rootstock, grow on moss bogs of sod. Soft blossoms of snowdrop now bloom on moors. Soon fog, not smog, rolls off old lochs onto boondocks of phlox. Lots of frogs hop from rock to rock: ‘frog, pond, plop’. Cows moo-moo to foghorns. Dogs bow-wow to moonglow. Most loons coo soft coos: coo, coo. Hoot owls hoot: hoo, hoo.

Brown storks flock to brooks to look for schools of smolt or schools of snook. Wolf dogs (los lobos) prowl woods or moors to look for spoor of wood-fowl or moorfowl. Most sorts of fox go off to snoop for coops known to hold woodcocks or moorcocks. Zoos known to stock zoomorphs (crocs or komodos, coons or bonobos) show off odd fowl: condors, hoopoos, flocks of owls or loons (not flocks of rocs or dodos). Most sloths, too slow to scoot from log to log, loll on mossgrown knolls of cottonwood to chomp on bollworms. Most worms molt from soft pods of cocoons to form broods of moths (two sorts: wood moth or moon moth): shoo, moth, shoo.

Scots from hogtowns or cowtowns work from cockcrow to moondown – to chop down woodlots, to plow down cornrows. Folks who work from morn to noon throw down slop to hogs or corn to sows. Most workfolk who sow crops of broomcorn grow corn crops sown from lots of cowflop compost (blobs of poo or globs of goo). From two o’clock on, workfolk groom colts born of broncos. Most cowfolk who hold onto cowprods to prod two sorts of ox (shorthorn or pronghorn) flog no shod ox sold to tow oxplows. Most honchos who own lots of longhorns on hoof shoot cows known to host cowpox. Dogs growl. Hogs snort. Most rooks or crows roost on rooftops.

Crooks who con folks go door to door to show folks lots of books on how to boost longshot growth of hot-shot stocks or low-cost bonds. Crooks who do so fob off fool’s gold onto fools. Crowds of droogs, who don workboots to stomp on downtrod hobos, go on to rob old folks, most of whom own posh co-op condos. Goons who shoot folks knock down doors, storm control rooms. Bronx cops do crowd control. Corps of shock-troops cordon off two blocks of shops to look for kooks who concoct knock-off bombs. Corps of storm-troops confront mobs of lowborn hoods, most of whom lob Molotov bombs to bomb pollbooths or tollbooths: pow, pow – boom.

Crowds of Ostrogoths who howl for blood go off on foot – to storm forts, to torch towns. Mongol troops, grown strong from bloodsport, loot strongholds of lords known to own tons of gold. Goths who lop off locks on doors of tombs spot no strongbox of loot – no gold, no boon – for Goths confront horrors too gross for words: gorgons from Mordor, kobolds from Chthon. Bold sons of Thor, god of storms, hold off, sword for sword, mobs of Morlocks – trolls who flood forth from bottommost worlds of rockbottom gloom. Orcs shoot bolts from crossbows. Lots of potshots, shot off from bows, mow down throngs of cohorts, most of whom swoon from loss of blood.

Goths who rob tombs confront old ghosts (most of whom prowl from ghost town to ghost town to spook poltroons). Lots of ghosts, who brood, forlorn, on moods of loss, howl for long-lost consorts – blond frows, sworn to honor fond vows of forsworn troth (now long forgot). Most consorts, too forlorn to long for comfort from sorrow, sob: boohoo, boohoo – so bozo clowns, who know not how to frown, don coxcombs, for pomp, for show, to spoof droll plots from books. Most fools who josh lords or mock snobs don hoods or cowls to do so (for wroth lords who scowl oft long to shoot folks who honor no form of snob-dom). Most fools go: ‘oops, ow – oh, bollocks: ho, ho’.