t i m o t h y    d a v i d    o r m e

                              from Reflummoxology: Or, A Navel Inverse

 

Excerpt One

Excerpt Two









































 

 

Life was always a pecuniary spattle with many losses ailing the way. And where was I there I was throwing rocks. Whacking cans in the orange light chasing monards awarding worms the wurst in the bordering the corn and tepid streams credulously clamming life on the stead was sturdy and soothing. With what port of pain was I atware thinking the farm was merly hearth and soil and not the fortunitous wheedling cycle of dolours and saints.

 

next









































 

 

His motives were ternary. To hook dinner unreel and provocate me to assfixiate my own fish in the oxegyn rich environs doubly pleasing his premeditations as a bother as a rube mottle or witnot and above all to validate his value to pop whos cures /circled/ onley himself. I was no amiable angler neturaly I was less than perforacte because I found it irksome fucking boring really a meter of charm luck and allure more than consisting of any farm of skull as though I may compare it to the vacuous counterpart to the messcary and subtlefugue and slaying that comes with the hunt. I never tried it should have been aparent how I just plunked there dawdling barely moistening my pole in the leak. If my worm dangled into the water it fell weightlily lured to the buttom. Upandon. Upandon. And on and on and on and on and on and on for returnity. Needles to hay I never caught any fish I should never have expeckted. But caw but cawt me now the objeggtive of this chickens scratching the point of this claw is the swift graspings the intillect compels and at that monument I was all sand an moon. While I should have been concentrating on my pole my mind was in other waters plotting my premature ejection from the house. How early early one day before classes chores or commentaries I would collect all my courage and come to this lake to see it shudder and shine only under the nights hand.

 

next

TIMOTHY DAVID ORME is a writer and filmmaker whose films have shown at small to large festivals all over the world, and whose first book of poems, Catalogue of Burnt Text, is available through BlazeVox Books.


I S S N     1 5 5 9 - 6 5 6 7