A PUPPET VENTRILOQUEY
I. Stomunculus the Homunculus [Incubation]Silence is Golem.
Inside liquid incubathing. Hot soufflé. Rising diaphramed oven braked burst into air. Stomunculus, the homunculus, lives in a stomach. Squelching dough for a belch coming up soon for a healthy squeeze. Gastropod gathered for the gastropop. This belly-belch chamber has four walls flat. Feel his fingers all over the smother, preambling slime slick surfaces. The smooth sucked shoe with a soft tongue. Beneath the balls of his foot the flute breath belch brought the floor up once to smelt. His knees shimmy quiver and press down soft, folding in the floored bored wet splatch.
Nothing is happening for a clap or a crap, but the gentle gelatinous gap up upward which paginates: opening closing, close to bursa, pursing oxaginating particrumbs. He always loves the particulation of his bursary stomach, until full flushing unfussed furling food is spent on his head.
But on this day, which is not his birthday but any other earth day, the same day as yesterday as there is no night and day but all the dark day long but the birthday, he waits for the surival of a new bound friend, Splat, the Splatter-Blotch.
Munculus has never seen his glue round friend, but he knows the Splatter-Blotch way, the botched job play of broken discombobulues, glued as ever in the creak stains of every gutter grimed clutter box.
Now how would he presupposeapare for the emmyreminent arrival of Signor Splat (infact Splat was not exactly that, a signor nor a sir, but undeterred nothing other than a splat)? Would he make a space for Talps back way round backside or form a globule mound of the pimpled ground for Splat to stack his splintered shins upon? Would he cockle cook or look for malnourishing stomachal podjuice, or blab his fingerdabbers in the ginger goo? And if Splat splattered through the hatch and resypooled all over the floor, would Munculus care to clean and clear him up?
Splat was regal nouned for his propension of spit, in reserve for his retigerment fun, and if the notemption would hit, splat would have spat his spit all flat, tit-for-tit, all more for over the floor and under your hat.
Munculus was always up for any or all of that.
Like the egg he wedged between his gobllin gums, Munculouse felt pressed inside a gabbling gut. Pore pufts of organ air chimchimed like purputts out a squish hole and he stuck his snout out. Cracking somewhere how other where wise, a cupbowler eggs slimed down from the racket hatch that pumps stammgastic sluices fluidently all day long to the song of Slipslod. The stink drink goo mustied up in the hot rot bog by Muncles foot and hasty cups he palms it up the tasty mungle omulette. Scalding to the burn bud, omlette buds burst tasting tightly on his tip of the touch tongue and swallow gallons galloped groping down the gullet. Hot hasty taste and long slug slow slip fitly down his throat.
Splat missed out on that, this tasteless toast with some egg to boast. At the least of only this time which is no time; egg wedge will whip up scrip up again, but at what time no organ knows, but which time will always certain toby exact time. Iso facto.
The fleshychamber rumbles in a guzzle. Something voyaging above will soon make play down to shat upon his head. Munculost elbows around in the paddypushkin ground and wall. Mingle grippling with a muncle-finger, he figures upon a wobbly crack, an opening groove grove that moves asides with slides upon penipore protrudence. So between the wall the floor resides a slick splace for Munck to hide. And as the mighty gashguzz gushed in tune to fuzzplumb drop, Muncuclose slid hid inhide side silence for the while squeezetween wall an floor.
Perhaps the shat was Splat? And who to watch the dropping Splatter-Blotch when he rocks through the holey squatch? Out of sight of the Muncupupils (as he sucked blindly in the crease) splotched a dislodged mound, a spattered heap dropped flat first on the pinky slippershine floor. But soon before Munculoser got his git to get there out slide out from the crack, drips of slipping spittle waddled loosely into the crease, giving Muncusap an early mucal bath.
Upslipped he through the slop. Wade wedging in the slickly stodge. Thick stick porridge was glooped about the basin and Muncuruck was stuck. In the bobbing billowhill he saw a throbbing particrumble unstick itself from the blodge and outstuck an eyeball, glimglaring at the Munculot himself.
The sludgehill frittered and carped in a noisesome barp. It smelt of eggfish dunged and shite fleece tongued. The eyeball and its head stuck its snout out to smell the libermating air. Was that Splat? If Splat was that he must have enrolled into a garbbling bodey, enslimed in the thick ritch porridabode. Muncumouse asked if that was Splat, as he flicked bits of flap from his cap.
-What’s Splat? Eyeball spat.
-You’re not Splat? Recried the Muncuhat.
I am Johnash the Hebroth on my way to Tarshish through Joppa. I drawed the lot that shot my Gott and now I’m hurtled in the mighty motion, the gaping Godroth sea.
-What! Not Splot! My mean, Splat?
-No, but splot is all I got.
-Why you tresspuke in my stomchambre?
-God’s broth wroth. I do not swim his will until now I spill his frothy swill.
-An now you swell my well!
Jonash the Hebrush shrugged his oaty sogshoulder and let drip down his eye.
-Well, you wanting omulette? Muncleman insquired.
-Yes, please!
-Ach, you hafta wait. He exspired.
So they stodstill in the stodge. Time ticked not in the notime place. The space was rot with poredom as stink gusts shot stuttedly from miniscule oraholes. The smell slept soundly round their ears.
Jonarsh remarked how here one can hear smell, and see sound.
Muncubunkle brushed him off and pissed him off. Bout time the slodge came off. He washed dislodged the podge with his uriclean spray. Would you be discrusted with this practuss? Not in here, where is all the same. One wet patch is none wet patch if all patch work match the wet patch. It’s all one patch and the same to you.
Jonash the Heglot came out unblot and cold, he must harbin unforty years old but for now tilbe untold. His snose was stout and snuck out his snout about his face. His ears unfold and butterflap in the cold, redding and thick stick wideout to hear all and clear. He wore not more than was propriatable, insklooding sack thatch coat and goatskin rope tether eyed to the side of his waste. His foot was sholed in bootscrapped scandals, fresh hot from the preach. His beard tip tucked from chin splints to toe timps and as it frayed in splays and gangleblots a plethorabble assortagamut of the gamutable polyverse sklipped and skluct his pubic duct.
Jonark the Hebraid has the epic beard. Inskied the furtrive canopoly of the rootled hairstream live a legion of inskirted kings and things througall of mistory. Amidst the multibits of chom glomped crumbs and teaspilt splits sifts the drift of glum grumbling gumbfs as they go gawdling all aglong the bungle, one bly one. So slowly shifting through the otiosal beard are smuts that were glut on death and vivagrimed now in the epicscopal beard. There scripping with nitgripping fingerclips is Scrain the Unable, barely scrimclipped to the climpcliff tuft, his glacial mark enmarked about the face; skliming up and sliming by with his gastropodous scrotus is Ludas Escargot, nooseldrippling tight wound round a stray strand, and there hurtles Herrclod, bundleglummed with the freight of a billion bawbling babes all gawpled on his back.
Nowcrumbs Noark’s son clawed Kham, clamboring in a turgid tuft. The little homuncuminkle winkles tears down stream his cheft cheek and leaks all below on Cancaan’s face, who is also turgle tangled in the epicscopic creak. Why cry thee crimble Sham? Was newt your sin enough for your pune ishmont? Dot skit there mute! Screak!
-Iamb Ham, man of Canan. Enpursed amid the cursive curling hair. I not wot I have done but now I’m splot got stop gobbed full of fur. After the Delviewvivan Blood that drowned us all but us: Shem, Jeff, Mem and Da and each beast paired, mepop was trunked on the vine and sclept gormless encaved. Out he plopped his manhood dropped and outbared it all to see. I ventured in the cayve to pee and beholden wot I see fore me! All I saw was not mot more than before and more than sure. I shaw the more. Now hear some blothers say what they drink in the word ‘saw’. Some stomach tha notion tha I saw and shore his prick, another swore I saw more than dick and falls my own to slip and drip and groan to the thick trick of Sodomorrah, then there’s those who speak ansee Leviticuttle’s rules an take ‘saw’ to denote ‘I saw me Mam, the Noheart’s wife. An incestultide indeed if all three. And then them who come to my side and say I just laugh and desclaim the hoot to the brutes outside, an then them who say the single same event again but vent their jujustive upon my life. And the worst crew cattle who shoot me all the more, say that I did all four.
But wot may I say that came my way? Which way I say the play that came that day? It has no matterugy. Untrue the clue has no glue. I did them all I did them none. Was no choice for fun nor glum, no choice for me if I were Clain or I was Haysus. I done the one the same and all the pain comes in the name. It’s my name, can no skip the game, it’s name it’s same, my life of pain.
Mean the while, Stomincublot is pored and shawns out a grawn. Huuuuuuuuuuuuuu…Yardy yardy clar. Yargle gargle plah. Yet Noharm’s son Bam-bam groans all along.
-But you no that old cavescapade came after the dwell and swelt in Noark’s bark? In the dark stum and gus, the hallowed gut, the multibucolic beasts feast in their pairs and leave their germigeneration to fumble blind in the splace. Inhide the gut we rut and touch to no hairveil and soon we all stomocate into curdling eructations. The pulse still plows and petripoles peristalsis. The pink shrim plurts juice, pumps sluice, billow plops and we grope grop tropping. And soon tuct through duct and sacremuct we mucal flash the pan and boil broth all the glut. In a pop we spill all the fill the swill out burst the girt and spurt.
But the Driblical misfire omissed a fact. A portent detail. You ask how did we scurive in our bodes with no beasts to feast? Whell, truth is tolled when all is tailed about the pairs of peds and tiles and phibians and sects and all pests we kept for you today but there was a load of podes we ate that none now know anon about.
Art this speech Stomunculus crocked his hear and was agin inqueerious about what the sprot had got to say.
-As the ark was upon the face of the waters and we of all flesh sailed for forty days and forty nights and as all the nostrils else that did breathe the breath of life upon the face of the earth were destroyed upon the face of the ground, we sucked and supped up as much we could to keep our life afloat with the boat. There were creatures, mighty beautiful creatures that we did eat of thereof that hither no longer have the feet or claws to walk or beating wings to fly. But they were creatures created for the ark itself, never had they existed before God sent down his judgement and they were to go forth and multiply goodness upon the face of the earth so that once the waters had dried and the bird had pluckt the leaf of peace we would once again regain the paradise which our great father had lost to the demon of pride. But our hunger was too vast, too mighty to resist the temptation of the flesh and so we five of all flesh amidst the twos of all beasts did fall upon them with the most ravenous disport and even before we had named them like our grandsire had named the beasts of paradise we did eat of all their stock. And that is why God’s wroth has turned to broth and we all are sludged in up to our necks in sickly sinful glue. But when I passed into the afterlife God told me that if I ever found a soul like yours enslimed in a cave of shadows and the breath of life I was to tell you the forms of the new creatures which he had created for the ark, and then mankind would hold the key to their salvation. All you need do is name them once I have described them and you and all humankind shall return to the paradise we have always sought to find again where our grandfather once sucked innocently from the nipples of our grandmother.
Stominkle was on his toeballs and Ham the Cancan man began to saith this new creed ate to him:
-First there was the beast of/
But all a sudda Ham went a shudda and he was scrucked back inside the epicscopic beard by a straygling hair. Jonagarp the Hebbletooth let loose a sprinkle gasp and stuck grasped his hebiscrotic beard as he slank to his knees in the fecal gloo. Splattering and spattering spew from his grob as mucal sput gruts out and flew all chew on the pukal floor. Stomchom skips his blot and skops his tot. As Joburg the Hurlburp spats his screw and out blasts a glob and rip drops jawbone all saw.
As Jonagarsh glimps gimply to the wheezing wall, Stomonicle inspects the lastest guest in his house.
It was Babel the Aleph, a squash ball squelch of a rotundical smould, rolled in its own spool of spill. Stom pull smudged up to it to smell and, soot it jute, it smelled all void.
What is this squiggy guttle ball all spelt in the grutter? This ball did fall all flow from the Trowel of Bagel. In sooth betolked, if all had plans had happed Grod had not god his evil way, it would have been the croning glinter piece atop the peak. The Shinar shamblers scrambled up the top and scattered down the drop when Gott god all smoteful. They crav’d this piece of brick salt pewter and named it Aleph, after the primal letter of the Alaphbed. Insid the ball they scraped it concave out like the scrape of your throat, ridged and corrogulated in the pipe path of the larynx. Today it’s trace remains, stuck in our necks, we call the Adam’s Apfel. But this prime piece is the originating Aleph ball from the tore of Shinar and it lacks its voice.
Meanthewhile Jonash the Hebroth, silent, slickly slips and froths away into the sclimey wall for all his fall. But Stomunculus is obbrivious to all but the Aleph Ball and with minor resitation he scrips it up, whips it up and swargles it down his throat.
He ate the bagel.
