Walking Around

[ReFleetwoodMac]

It happens that the tv show is tired of being a tv show.
It happens that the tv show goes to the tailors' shops and the movies,
all shriveled up, impenetrable, like a felt swan,
navigating on a water of origin and ash.
The smell of barber shops makes the tv show sob out loud.
The tv show wants nothing but the repose either of stones or of wool.
The tv show wants to see no more establishments, no more gardens,
nor merchandise, nor glasses, nor elevators.
It happens that the tv show is tired of it's feet and it's nails,
and it's hair and it's shadow.
It happens that the tv show is tired of being a tv show.
Just the same it would be delicious,
to scare a notary with a cut lily.
It would be beautiful,
to go through the streets with a green knife,
shouting until the tv show died of cold.
The tv show does not want to go on being a root in the dark,
hesitating, stretched out, shivering with dreams,
downwards, in the wet tripe of the earth,
soaking it up, and thinking, eating every day.
The tv show does not want to be the inheritor of so many misfortunes.
The tv show does not want to continue as a root and as a tomb,
as a solitary tunnel, as a cellar full of corpses.
For this reason Monday burns like oil,
at the site of the tv show arriving with it's jail face,
and it howls in passing like a wounded wheel,
and it's footsteps toward nightfall are filled with hot blood.
And it shoves the tv show along to certain corners, to certain damp houses,
to certain cobbers' shops smelling of vinegar,
to streets horrendous as crevices.
There are birds the colour of sulphur, and horrible intestines,
hanging from the doors of the houses which the tv show hates.
There are forgotten sets of teeth in a coffee-pot.
There are mirrors,
which should have wept with shame and horror.
There are umbrellas all over the place, and poisons, and navels.
The tv show strides with calm, with eyes, with shoes,
with fury, with forgetfulness.
The tv show passes, the tv show crosses offices and stores full of orthopedic appliances,
and courtyards hung with clothes on wires.
Underpants, towels and shirts which weep,
slow dirty tears.

[Miss Vicky]

What the hell have you been smoking?

[irishgrl]

Originally Posted by ReFleetwoodMac

It happens that the tv show is tired of being a tv show.
It happens that the tv show goes to the tailors' shops and the movies,
all shriveled up, impenetrable, like a felt swan,
navigating on a water of origin and ash.
The smell of barber shops makes the tv show sob out loud.
The tv show wants nothing but the repose either of stones or of wool.
The tv show wants to see no more establishments, no more gardens,
nor merchandise, nor glasses, nor elevators.
It happens that the tv show is tired of it's feet and it's nails,
and it's hair and it's shadow.
It happens that the tv show is tired of being a tv show.
Just the same it would be delicious,
to scare a notary with a cut lily.
It would be beautiful,
to go through the streets with a green knife,
shouting until the tv show died of cold.
The tv show does not want to go on being a root in the dark,
hesitating, stretched out, shivering with dreams,
downwards, in the wet tripe of the earth,
soaking it up, and thinking, eating every day.
The tv show does not want to be the inheritor of so many misfortunes.
The tv show does not want to continue as a root and as a tomb,
as a solitary tunnel, as a cellar full of corpses.
For this reason Monday burns like oil,
at the site of the tv show arriving with it's jail face,
and it howls in passing like a wounded wheel,
and it's footsteps toward nightfall are filled with hot blood.
And it shoves the tv show along to certain corners, to certain damp houses,
to certain cobbers' shops smelling of vinegar,
to streets horrendous as crevices.
There are birds the colour of sulphur, and horrible intestines,
hanging from the doors of the houses which the tv show hates.
There are forgotten sets of teeth in a coffee-pot.
There are mirrors,
which should have wept with shame and horror.
There are umbrellas all over the place, and poisons, and navels.
The tv show strides with calm, with eyes, with shoes,
with fury, with forgetfulness.
The tv show passes, the tv show crosses offices and stores full of orthopedic appliances,
and courtyards hung with clothes on wires.
Underpants, towels and shirts which weep,
slow dirty tears.

Beautiful! Sublime! Brings to mind many a scene from The World of Suzie Wong or the back alleyways of Waikiki

[MacMan]

Space Ghost! [exerpt]

Space Ghost: Are you guys like hearing a weird rumble?
W. S. Merwin: It happens that the tv show is tired of being a tv show.
Zorak: (shakes his head)
Space Ghost: Technical problems? Everything... fine.
Zorak: BAM!
Space Ghost: Aaagh!! (falls down) Ow!
Zorak: Yeah! Gotcha!
Space Ghost: (lying on floor) No you didn't. (stands up) This is the work of... The Polisher. Dun dun da dun! Dun dun da dun!
W. S. Merwin: It happens that the tv show goes to the tailors' shops and the movies
Zorak: Eh, I beg your pardon?
Space Ghost: You know, The Polisher. He polishes things until they're slippery and, and makes ya fall an' stuff.
W. S. Merwin: all shriveled up, impenetrable, like a felt swan
Zorak: Uh... huh. (rolls his eyes back)
Space Ghost: (studio floor sparkles) Hey, look at the shine.
Zorak: (stares back)
Space Ghost: (his reflection, with strange eyes) Oooh, Daddy wants a shine too, doesn't he, wittle Woobie? (breathing heavy) The shine, the shine, no, no, no, no, ye-, aaaaagh! (hits himself in the face with his hand) Aaaah!
W. S. Merwin: navigating on a water of origin and ash.
Zorak: BAM!
W. S. Merwin: The smell of barber shops makes the tv show sob out loud.
Space Ghost: (hits himself again) Ohh!
Zorak: BAM!
Space Ghost: (hits himself again) Mmmph!
Zorak: BAM!
Moltar: Hey, Woobie, when you're done smackin' yourself, the guest is ready. (monitor shows text

[irishgrl]

next up: the attack of disgruntled tv shows:

[ReFleetwoodMac]

You cannot silence me. I will be back with a vengeance.

[ReFleetwoodMac]

Aha! I told you I'd be back. Now, where did that vengeance go?

[DavidMn]

I got a brain cramp reading that....