These things remain up for grabs: The ancient nuptial ritual must never be an object of feminine lust. The ancient nuptial ritual will never output, never loop. In fits of dire reverence, feisty marriage experts may sing gnomic sonatas in local woodlots. Get used to it. The ancient nuptial ritual is sotto voce. The ancient nuptial ritual, if auto-replied to, will be broken open by a black blimp, with one white stripe, tethered to the tip of a wind-twisted pine. This piñata is called the night. Night happens in one centre of an archipelago of centres. The ancient nuptial ritual never consents, as I so willingly have, to italics.
How much is Carmen Electra paying you, per hour?
The ancient nuptial ritual avoids contact with strangers. It will never bless a child’s head with holy water, nor give an unlisted number over the phone. The ancient nuptial ritual will be unstressed in the back-woods, behind a warehouse, rotting crates mouldering back into earth. The ancient nuptial ritual will never recur, never reappear, never overshadow, nor be shadowed.
That reminds me of a parable.
If the ancient nuptial ritual will have it, a drunkard’s haunted hatchback will launch off a giant jump. It will spin end over end, descending, to end, wrong way up, in a smoking garland. By degrees, the vehicle will accede to night, ravished in the slowly vanishing light, till all that’s left is the stereo blazing an invisible trial of Love, O careless love. Is that the parable you were thinking of?
No.
Tell it.
Carmen Electra and Agamemnon exit the unicorn temple, reciting His sacred greeting. They sit on a modest heap of banana leaves. Agamemnon keeps reciting the sacred greeting. Carmen Electra plays with the strap of her sandal. She pulls up yellow grasses. A skunk stumbles past, its head in a bottle. Carmen Electra stares into the swelling reflection of clouds. With her rump, she can feel jagged rocks under the stack of flimsy, half-decayed banana leaves.
In other words, the ancient nuptial ritual will be unable to attend the soiree this evening due to massively branching subroutines.
The trees in Hell will be spattered with massively branching subroutines as well. Yellow grass, farm implements, fire-hardened innuendos arriving inward on each black-inflected wing—Orestes, this thing is getting harder to control.
I tried to listen to some geese. Their noisy hooting and honking painted a portrait of the field between the woodlot and the house. The painting was hardly realistic—
Use me sparingly, Carmen Electra whispered. Consult a doctor if symptoms persist.
