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Rowlin's Blurred Picture
I waddered adong an unluck-fire pithypath. T’was uphillo and winding-dong and clittered with the works of under-recogged stranger fancy. Near a leafloss twee I pawed to rest, and as the swarm razor of the superstar brick thru the cloods, I spontannerly grrr-asped a smallish sheET of yello-‘ello paperus as it swirligigged merry-go-round me footers.
DREAMERS ARE ALWAYS ALONE! was scrubbed on it tin what hip eerie to be blue-odd. The jibber-jabber of a madsaddo sage, I taught… sow I,s let it a-go-go and wristwatched as the wuff-wuff breezer slunk it downhello.
"Hey strangler!"
(Who was so at?)
"Yew there!"
(I lucky leftie then writer and see-saw nay winner.)
"Misty pecker-liar!"
(I glacier’d upper and thereabouts bother me was a maskatron woeman seat sat on a hove ring car pet.)
"Here dear, fake ziss."
(She drooped a small buck at me footers.)
"A splash hall delivvy from the power-int-tower."
(She Pinocchio’d at a darky spiro on the horridzone, then fizzzzz’d howay-the-lads at speedy gonalez.)
The power-int-tower, I pond red, must be summer ant import… sow I pickled upper the smallish buck.
ROWLIN'S BLURRED PICTURE was pressured in gold-leafage criss-cross the blotchy bled coverage. I oh penned it and big gunshot to red:
-----
Look - see the picture: there's a small yellow horse galloping across a swirling green plain.
Look - see the picture: there's a lonely pink balloon floating in a grey meaningless sky.
Look - see the picture: there's a white butterfly flittering above a never-ending field of swaying wheat.
Look - see the picture: it's becoming blurred, like faces in the rain.
Look - see the picture: there's a man with a time bomb and he's headed your way.
Look - see the picture: there's a woman in a red dress and it's dripping with blood.
Look - see the picture: there's a child chasing a feather over the edge of a cliff.
Look - see the picture: it's becoming blurred, like shadows in the night.
Look - see the picture: you're standing in a forest holding the head of a bull.
Look - see the picture: there's a beast on the loose and it's prowling for prey.
Look - see the picture: there's a blade-wielding fanatic cutting his own throat.
Look - see the picture: it's becoming blurred, like the closing eyes of a dying brain.
Reader, am I in danger of abstracting myself out of your universe?
Yes. The answer is yes. And in this book, yes means THE END.
----
Hat was it. Just wan pager of texico. The remain deer of the curio volloom con tanned a pro-and-con-fusion of crypts and drawers witch I cwouldn't make header nor tallyho of, sow I,s closure the buck and con tin used to wadder upper the winding-dong hillo-‘ello.
Afterburner a floozie stepping-stones I big gunshot to fall a party. Me fish-fingers and chips fellow offer won by winner. Then me handstands. Thudder. Thudder. Twin gooey fisters ont stoned grundy. Then mo arms cameo freebird at the hellbow jaunts and drooped. The skinnydipper on me face-off big gunshot to bubble’n’squeak and melter. Mo footers churned Walter the Softie then me bootboys and I hell-for-leather fell over White Cliffs of Dover. Nix t’was ma pegs that departed from me tuxedo chest. The stench of deadringer flesh swampy ma faster disappear-ring sniffers. Outer corn me I,s eye then sawyer me inter-null organizers fall lowly sidewayless outer me gap ring midruff. Squelch-on-earth. Mia steamy interestings bled the grewsome escapeage. Finish alley, me header big gunshot to loosen from me necker... ten dons snappered and howay-the-lads it wet, rolling down the hill hello.
Rolling down the hill hello.
Rolling down the hill hello.
Me I,s wittiness the whirled ying-yanging bye in a blurry collar mangle.
Rolling down the hill hello.
Foster and Allen, hill hello
All I cwould sees was a bluebleary.
Rolling down the hill hello.
Rolling downhillo.
Rolling.
Rollin'.
ROWLIN!
Me header came to crust in the lowest of the low dippin’ of a rocky stream-dream, where hit was rad pickled clean bye a regimento of no heart crow carks.
Just tin caseo yuri still wuddering what all this disser bout, let me claret fry: the ill-pill scribberlings found in the buck ROWLIN'S BLURRED PICTURE are a fatal cuss, and I,s was a happyless non-victor, and now I'm doornail, telling u,s this c*ck-and-bull using the brain-train in some winner else's header. And if you've red Rowlin's word-swords just now, then u,s twill sooner begoner. That's how the cuss works - call it winner its quirks.
I waddered adong an unluck-fire pithypath. T’was uphillo and winding-dong and clittered with the works of under-recogged stranger fancy. Near a leafloss twee I pawed to rest, and as the swarm razor of the superstar brick thru the cloods, I spontannerly grrr-asped a smallish sheET of yello-‘ello paperus as it swirligigged merry-go-round me footers.
DREAMERS ARE ALWAYS ALONE! was scrubbed on it tin what hip eerie to be blue-odd. The jibber-jabber of a madsaddo sage, I taught… sow I,s let it a-go-go and wristwatched as the wuff-wuff breezer slunk it downhello.
"Hey strangler!"
(Who was so at?)
"Yew there!"
(I lucky leftie then writer and see-saw nay winner.)
"Misty pecker-liar!"
(I glacier’d upper and thereabouts bother me was a maskatron woeman seat sat on a hove ring car pet.)
"Here dear, fake ziss."
(She drooped a small buck at me footers.)
"A splash hall delivvy from the power-int-tower."
(She Pinocchio’d at a darky spiro on the horridzone, then fizzzzz’d howay-the-lads at speedy gonalez.)
The power-int-tower, I pond red, must be summer ant import… sow I pickled upper the smallish buck.
ROWLIN'S BLURRED PICTURE was pressured in gold-leafage criss-cross the blotchy bled coverage. I oh penned it and big gunshot to red:
-----
Look - see the picture: there's a small yellow horse galloping across a swirling green plain.
Look - see the picture: there's a lonely pink balloon floating in a grey meaningless sky.
Look - see the picture: there's a white butterfly flittering above a never-ending field of swaying wheat.
Look - see the picture: it's becoming blurred, like faces in the rain.
Look - see the picture: there's a man with a time bomb and he's headed your way.
Look - see the picture: there's a woman in a red dress and it's dripping with blood.
Look - see the picture: there's a child chasing a feather over the edge of a cliff.
Look - see the picture: it's becoming blurred, like shadows in the night.
Look - see the picture: you're standing in a forest holding the head of a bull.
Look - see the picture: there's a beast on the loose and it's prowling for prey.
Look - see the picture: there's a blade-wielding fanatic cutting his own throat.
Look - see the picture: it's becoming blurred, like the closing eyes of a dying brain.
Reader, am I in danger of abstracting myself out of your universe?
Yes. The answer is yes. And in this book, yes means THE END.
----
Hat was it. Just wan pager of texico. The remain deer of the curio volloom con tanned a pro-and-con-fusion of crypts and drawers witch I cwouldn't make header nor tallyho of, sow I,s closure the buck and con tin used to wadder upper the winding-dong hillo-‘ello.
Afterburner a floozie stepping-stones I big gunshot to fall a party. Me fish-fingers and chips fellow offer won by winner. Then me handstands. Thudder. Thudder. Twin gooey fisters ont stoned grundy. Then mo arms cameo freebird at the hellbow jaunts and drooped. The skinnydipper on me face-off big gunshot to bubble’n’squeak and melter. Mo footers churned Walter the Softie then me bootboys and I hell-for-leather fell over White Cliffs of Dover. Nix t’was ma pegs that departed from me tuxedo chest. The stench of deadringer flesh swampy ma faster disappear-ring sniffers. Outer corn me I,s eye then sawyer me inter-null organizers fall lowly sidewayless outer me gap ring midruff. Squelch-on-earth. Mia steamy interestings bled the grewsome escapeage. Finish alley, me header big gunshot to loosen from me necker... ten dons snappered and howay-the-lads it wet, rolling down the hill hello.
Rolling down the hill hello.
Rolling down the hill hello.
Me I,s wittiness the whirled ying-yanging bye in a blurry collar mangle.
Rolling down the hill hello.
Foster and Allen, hill hello
All I cwould sees was a bluebleary.
Rolling down the hill hello.
Rolling downhillo.
Rolling.
Rollin'.
ROWLIN!
Me header came to crust in the lowest of the low dippin’ of a rocky stream-dream, where hit was rad pickled clean bye a regimento of no heart crow carks.
Just tin caseo yuri still wuddering what all this disser bout, let me claret fry: the ill-pill scribberlings found in the buck ROWLIN'S BLURRED PICTURE are a fatal cuss, and I,s was a happyless non-victor, and now I'm doornail, telling u,s this c*ck-and-bull using the brain-train in some winner else's header. And if you've red Rowlin's word-swords just now, then u,s twill sooner begoner. That's how the cuss works - call it winner its quirks.
"pro-and-con-fusion"
I liked that.
I didn't appreciate your bizarre writing style though.
I liked that.
I didn't appreciate your bizarre writing style though.
Thanks Strafio, I'll check it.
Yeah, I sort of got the giest of most of it, but some of it was warped WAY beyond ANY understanding. :-D
Get the album Odgens Nutflake by the Small Faces and listen to side 2 (from Hippiness Stan to Happy Days Toy Town).
It's EXACTLY what the narrator was doing. It does your head RIGHT in! :-D
Get the album Odgens Nutflake by the Small Faces and listen to side 2 (from Hippiness Stan to Happy Days Toy Town).
It's EXACTLY what the narrator was doing. It does your head RIGHT in! :-D
It's just wordplay, nothing else. There is a story there, but...
e.g. 1st paragraph:
I waddered adong an unluck-fire pithypath. T’was uphillo and winding-dong and clittered with the works of under-recogged stranger fancy. Near a leafloss twee I pawed to rest, and as the swarm razor of the superstar brick thru the cloods, I spontannerly grrr-asped a smallish sheET of yello-‘ello paperus as it swirligigged merry-go-round me footers.
Is really:
I wandered along an unlooked-for path. It was uphill and winding and littered with the works of unrecognized strangness. Near a leafless tree I paused to rest, and as the warm rays of the sun broke through the clouds, I spontaneously grasped a small sheet of yellow paper as it swirled around my feet.
e.g. 1st paragraph:
I waddered adong an unluck-fire pithypath. T’was uphillo and winding-dong and clittered with the works of under-recogged stranger fancy. Near a leafloss twee I pawed to rest, and as the swarm razor of the superstar brick thru the cloods, I spontannerly grrr-asped a smallish sheET of yello-‘ello paperus as it swirligigged merry-go-round me footers.
Is really:
I wandered along an unlooked-for path. It was uphill and winding and littered with the works of unrecognized strangness. Near a leafless tree I paused to rest, and as the warm rays of the sun broke through the clouds, I spontaneously grasped a small sheet of yellow paper as it swirled around my feet.
Interesting but...
ahem? :-D
I'll try again later.
You writing style reminds me of the narrator on the second half of the Small Faces album, Odgens Nutflake.
All muxed and mitted. :-)
ahem? :-D
I'll try again later.
You writing style reminds me of the narrator on the second half of the Small Faces album, Odgens Nutflake.
All muxed and mitted. :-)
I didn't understand any of it in the slightest*
But I seemed to enjoy it.
[S]*May not be true, only used for linguistic effect.[/S]
But I seemed to enjoy it.
[S]*May not be true, only used for linguistic effect.[/S]
What did I just read? I barely understood a word of that except apparantly I twill sooner begoner :)
RoJ wrote:
> but I am not sure whether it would work for every
> one of your stories.
No, but it's addictive writing semi-gobbledegook.
eats some more opium
> but I am not sure whether it would work for every
> one of your stories.
No, but it's addictive writing semi-gobbledegook.
eats some more opium
My anme is Rowan.
I hope that was a tribute to me.
:P
Anyway, bizarre. Sort of the same style as Lewis Carroll's "Jabberwocky" -
say, you aren't on opium are you?
Creatively written but I am not sure whether it would work for every one of your stories.
I hope that was a tribute to me.
:P
Anyway, bizarre. Sort of the same style as Lewis Carroll's "Jabberwocky" -
say, you aren't on opium are you?
Creatively written but I am not sure whether it would work for every one of your stories.
Rowlin's Blurred Picture
I waddered adong an unluck-fire pithypath. T’was uphillo and winding-dong and clittered with the works of under-recogged stranger fancy. Near a leafloss twee I pawed to rest, and as the swarm razor of the superstar brick thru the cloods, I spontannerly grrr-asped a smallish sheET of yello-‘ello paperus as it swirligigged merry-go-round me footers.
DREAMERS ARE ALWAYS ALONE! was scrubbed on it tin what hip eerie to be blue-odd. The jibber-jabber of a madsaddo sage, I taught… sow I,s let it a-go-go and wristwatched as the wuff-wuff breezer slunk it downhello.
"Hey strangler!"
(Who was so at?)
"Yew there!"
(I lucky leftie then writer and see-saw nay winner.)
"Misty pecker-liar!"
(I glacier’d upper and thereabouts bother me was a maskatron woeman seat sat on a hove ring car pet.)
"Here dear, fake ziss."
(She drooped a small buck at me footers.)
"A splash hall delivvy from the power-int-tower."
(She Pinocchio’d at a darky spiro on the horridzone, then fizzzzz’d howay-the-lads at speedy gonalez.)
The power-int-tower, I pond red, must be summer ant import… sow I pickled upper the smallish buck.
ROWLIN'S BLURRED PICTURE was pressured in gold-leafage criss-cross the blotchy bled coverage. I oh penned it and big gunshot to red:
-----
Look - see the picture: there's a small yellow horse galloping across a swirling green plain.
Look - see the picture: there's a lonely pink balloon floating in a grey meaningless sky.
Look - see the picture: there's a white butterfly flittering above a never-ending field of swaying wheat.
Look - see the picture: it's becoming blurred, like faces in the rain.
Look - see the picture: there's a man with a time bomb and he's headed your way.
Look - see the picture: there's a woman in a red dress and it's dripping with blood.
Look - see the picture: there's a child chasing a feather over the edge of a cliff.
Look - see the picture: it's becoming blurred, like shadows in the night.
Look - see the picture: you're standing in a forest holding the head of a bull.
Look - see the picture: there's a beast on the loose and it's prowling for prey.
Look - see the picture: there's a blade-wielding fanatic cutting his own throat.
Look - see the picture: it's becoming blurred, like the closing eyes of a dying brain.
Reader, am I in danger of abstracting myself out of your universe?
Yes. The answer is yes. And in this book, yes means THE END.
----
Hat was it. Just wan pager of texico. The remain deer of the curio volloom con tanned a pro-and-con-fusion of crypts and drawers witch I cwouldn't make header nor tallyho of, sow I,s closure the buck and con tin used to wadder upper the winding-dong hillo-‘ello.
Afterburner a floozie stepping-stones I big gunshot to fall a party. Me fish-fingers and chips fellow offer won by winner. Then me handstands. Thudder. Thudder. Twin gooey fisters ont stoned grundy. Then mo arms cameo freebird at the hellbow jaunts and drooped. The skinnydipper on me face-off big gunshot to bubble’n’squeak and melter. Mo footers churned Walter the Softie then me bootboys and I hell-for-leather fell over White Cliffs of Dover. Nix t’was ma pegs that departed from me tuxedo chest. The stench of deadringer flesh swampy ma faster disappear-ring sniffers. Outer corn me I,s eye then sawyer me inter-null organizers fall lowly sidewayless outer me gap ring midruff. Squelch-on-earth. Mia steamy interestings bled the grewsome escapeage. Finish alley, me header big gunshot to loosen from me necker... ten dons snappered and howay-the-lads it wet, rolling down the hill hello.
Rolling down the hill hello.
Rolling down the hill hello.
Me I,s wittiness the whirled ying-yanging bye in a blurry collar mangle.
Rolling down the hill hello.
Foster and Allen, hill hello
All I cwould sees was a bluebleary.
Rolling down the hill hello.
Rolling downhillo.
Rolling.
Rollin'.
ROWLIN!
Me header came to crust in the lowest of the low dippin’ of a rocky stream-dream, where hit was rad pickled clean bye a regimento of no heart crow carks.
Just tin caseo yuri still wuddering what all this disser bout, let me claret fry: the ill-pill scribberlings found in the buck ROWLIN'S BLURRED PICTURE are a fatal cuss, and I,s was a happyless non-victor, and now I'm doornail, telling u,s this c*ck-and-bull using the brain-train in some winner else's header. And if you've red Rowlin's word-swords just now, then u,s twill sooner begoner. That's how the cuss works - call it winner its quirks.
I waddered adong an unluck-fire pithypath. T’was uphillo and winding-dong and clittered with the works of under-recogged stranger fancy. Near a leafloss twee I pawed to rest, and as the swarm razor of the superstar brick thru the cloods, I spontannerly grrr-asped a smallish sheET of yello-‘ello paperus as it swirligigged merry-go-round me footers.
DREAMERS ARE ALWAYS ALONE! was scrubbed on it tin what hip eerie to be blue-odd. The jibber-jabber of a madsaddo sage, I taught… sow I,s let it a-go-go and wristwatched as the wuff-wuff breezer slunk it downhello.
"Hey strangler!"
(Who was so at?)
"Yew there!"
(I lucky leftie then writer and see-saw nay winner.)
"Misty pecker-liar!"
(I glacier’d upper and thereabouts bother me was a maskatron woeman seat sat on a hove ring car pet.)
"Here dear, fake ziss."
(She drooped a small buck at me footers.)
"A splash hall delivvy from the power-int-tower."
(She Pinocchio’d at a darky spiro on the horridzone, then fizzzzz’d howay-the-lads at speedy gonalez.)
The power-int-tower, I pond red, must be summer ant import… sow I pickled upper the smallish buck.
ROWLIN'S BLURRED PICTURE was pressured in gold-leafage criss-cross the blotchy bled coverage. I oh penned it and big gunshot to red:
-----
Look - see the picture: there's a small yellow horse galloping across a swirling green plain.
Look - see the picture: there's a lonely pink balloon floating in a grey meaningless sky.
Look - see the picture: there's a white butterfly flittering above a never-ending field of swaying wheat.
Look - see the picture: it's becoming blurred, like faces in the rain.
Look - see the picture: there's a man with a time bomb and he's headed your way.
Look - see the picture: there's a woman in a red dress and it's dripping with blood.
Look - see the picture: there's a child chasing a feather over the edge of a cliff.
Look - see the picture: it's becoming blurred, like shadows in the night.
Look - see the picture: you're standing in a forest holding the head of a bull.
Look - see the picture: there's a beast on the loose and it's prowling for prey.
Look - see the picture: there's a blade-wielding fanatic cutting his own throat.
Look - see the picture: it's becoming blurred, like the closing eyes of a dying brain.
Reader, am I in danger of abstracting myself out of your universe?
Yes. The answer is yes. And in this book, yes means THE END.
----
Hat was it. Just wan pager of texico. The remain deer of the curio volloom con tanned a pro-and-con-fusion of crypts and drawers witch I cwouldn't make header nor tallyho of, sow I,s closure the buck and con tin used to wadder upper the winding-dong hillo-‘ello.
Afterburner a floozie stepping-stones I big gunshot to fall a party. Me fish-fingers and chips fellow offer won by winner. Then me handstands. Thudder. Thudder. Twin gooey fisters ont stoned grundy. Then mo arms cameo freebird at the hellbow jaunts and drooped. The skinnydipper on me face-off big gunshot to bubble’n’squeak and melter. Mo footers churned Walter the Softie then me bootboys and I hell-for-leather fell over White Cliffs of Dover. Nix t’was ma pegs that departed from me tuxedo chest. The stench of deadringer flesh swampy ma faster disappear-ring sniffers. Outer corn me I,s eye then sawyer me inter-null organizers fall lowly sidewayless outer me gap ring midruff. Squelch-on-earth. Mia steamy interestings bled the grewsome escapeage. Finish alley, me header big gunshot to loosen from me necker... ten dons snappered and howay-the-lads it wet, rolling down the hill hello.
Rolling down the hill hello.
Rolling down the hill hello.
Me I,s wittiness the whirled ying-yanging bye in a blurry collar mangle.
Rolling down the hill hello.
Foster and Allen, hill hello
All I cwould sees was a bluebleary.
Rolling down the hill hello.
Rolling downhillo.
Rolling.
Rollin'.
ROWLIN!
Me header came to crust in the lowest of the low dippin’ of a rocky stream-dream, where hit was rad pickled clean bye a regimento of no heart crow carks.
Just tin caseo yuri still wuddering what all this disser bout, let me claret fry: the ill-pill scribberlings found in the buck ROWLIN'S BLURRED PICTURE are a fatal cuss, and I,s was a happyless non-victor, and now I'm doornail, telling u,s this c*ck-and-bull using the brain-train in some winner else's header. And if you've red Rowlin's word-swords just now, then u,s twill sooner begoner. That's how the cuss works - call it winner its quirks.