Once Upon A Dork & Rubbery Night - Chapter 5.

5.
And so the egg did wonder. Always return to the egg Napoleon, that’s what my friend Fish Flakes used to say. So I did. I followed the egg. Into the onion. I followed the soldier into the town. I followed the Jesus into the Jewess, I followed Persephone underground.

That’s enough of that pre-pubescent poetry said Dr Cumkwickly, now, let’s move into the pork region where we can smoke.

It was a balmy night, and the wind shunted glissfully across the marbled rockwery of the Pork Region. A few dying leaferies swayed glissfully in the breezenstine. I watched a mockroach dance across the pebbleness, and a small but pungent ear formed in the corner of my eye, it was through that I listened to the next mostel roomery.

“This fliggs gotta give,” said a young boys voice, “it’s blursting bluben like.”

“Said,” a peer in response, “I’s frigg it.”

And then there was the strange but warmly sound of a bicycle pumping, a cat’s weasel, and an igloo, in F.

“Dr” I said, “I think we should investigate.”

He throwed back his shot of aspirant and wobbled in ascent. I glibbed mine, and shakily move across the now more brighter room, towards the door, and onto the patio.

The good Dr discretely pulled a revolver from a garter belt neatly concealed below his forethought and blew the lock of the motel womb next to it. And through the smoke we inhibited.

Once Upon A Dork & Rubbery Night - Chapter 4.

4.
And so it was, a dorble sorting, that I came to imulate the esk. It was many lube holed on such occasions, and most drabulous in it’s means. Weevil girls floating round me, espulous beans on umulence amount. Jabbernoired nude ramblings, in a Tudor Sedan.

The good Dr was dragging me through the doors of a strange hallucination, verblings as we earned.

My icicles lit surprise as they lay eggs upon the vision towut moi.

“Mine Goethe, it’s inhumane” I sprayed with wettery slickle as I watched the wriggling Jesus on the crucifix, whining noisily and sweatily, and stinkling hot breath from even here from me. “Where did you get it?”

“It’s mine,” pronounced the goods Dr profoundly, straightening the ribbed silk noose around his neckle as he did so, and qwouching, before continuing, “I have created a strain of the dead Jesus, using DNA from a True Cross in Firenze that I stole as a chile.”

“Stole as a chile?”

“Si, wigged as a bambino, nicked as a kidicle, robbed as a ratrug.”

“Friggen weird thing to do as a kid in’t?”

“Si, but I was a weird kiddicle, dig?”

“Sure, dig” I finished, but the brain borbbled, “not with this circus clone in mind mind you no yes?”

“Yes no, I frigged it from the beginning. It was always my aimacle. It was the bug in my head, the see in the eye of my spud. What can I say – I was born genius.”

“My god, “ I said, “I’m sweating, it must be the humility.”

He didn’t frig the jock, and gave me a sterly look. But how, I wondered, did this do with me? What was my porpoise in this Styrofoam? Where was I why was here need me?

Once Upon A Dork & Rubbery Night - Chapter 3.

3.
I jubbed into the pool of wine they pointed out to the cleft of the stradium, and felt the warm columbard grapes against my person.

“Ah, De Borteli.”

“For sure, and seven years ago.”

“Caffeine?” said Eagerly as I bubbed my head up to the slurface.

“Si,” and she prepared silver fit, then boiled a bean upon a spoon and pulling it in to the silver machine, found a hungry vein and shot the hot needle into me.

“Supreme” I screamed as the hot bean hit my front temple brine matter, and awoke my old grey from it’s confusion of sleep. “The world can eat me now Sister.”

Just then Dr Cumcwikli came in. He was wearing a bicycle helmet, in the old style, with a Roman feather to the left, and his bedraggled features spoke of a mixture of Flemish pride in his work, and a soft and slightly purple paranoia, with an apricot hint. He offered me the apricot hint on his warm palm, and I refused, singing,

“No thanks today Doctor, I got running all over me, I had left before breakfast beverages, capisc?”

“Non problemo piu privato carbinari, tu parle Siciliano?”

“Mi dispiace, no.”

“Mi scusi, io parle englese.”

“Si, par favore.”

Then “OK” he said in the broadest of outback accents I’ve ever ad eared to – thicker than a very big big thick thing, sworder than a porkish sausage.

“Now, what about this gimlet?” he squeezed from his lippery fat toothacle.

“I assume you mean?”

“Yes.”

“Isn’t it?”

And I realized, in that instant, as a bat clipped my ear and bounced angrily off the ceiling, that my wife would never bleed the same again. In fact, she was the distance.

Once Upon A Dork & Rubbery Night - Chapter 2.

2.
I woke up with her wigged out hair above me – it was a mane of coal curls that danced around her temple like a drunken Hare Krsna.

“What your bag sad gladly?” she said, as she wiped a melon from the floor beside me, and lipped the juicy fluids from my forehead.

“Where’s am is?” I said, attempting to swig in my surroundings.

She just laughed a mad crackling chaggle that filled the room and, disfortunately for me, showed her gapped and raggled dentiture to all the laundry.

Another drabbled angel came over, and together they flipped me, placed my lid back on the oily hairicles, and tussed me aboard the red velveteen sea of the biggest bed in the City of Sindy.

“You are” slyly gargled the second one, “in Madrab Gadam’s Rapulent Palace O’ Pleasure, I am Swim, and she is Eagerly.”

“I’m Napoleon” I swayed.

“We know, but pleased to meat you again Tubbs. Sorella, fecth’m a wet”

And Eagerly brought me an aged Iri Wicky on rocks and dash of soda ream, which I eagerly chortled, before really feeling the sore in my heads for the first time.

“Here,” said Swim “lib this,” and held out a palm of pipples. I doused them and lay back to have a quick dream.

Once Upon a Dork & Rubbery Night. Chapter One

After "Jabbernoir e Lychee Whine" Gemnastics and Benito attempted to collaborate on several other Jabbernoir pieces, none of which they were completely happy with, and the collaboration, for the time, died.

Meanwhile, Benito continued to experiment with the style. He decided to use the form of the verse novel, which he had success with in "Her, Leaving, as the Acid hits" (Independence Jones Guerilla Press, 2004), and the character Napoleon Hangover who had been the protagonist of a play he wrote for a production at The Studio at The Sydney Opera House as well as of a radio serial he wrote for FBI-94.5FM, and of an earlier unpublished verse novel "I'll Always Remember You Fondling."

Whether or not it's poetry is debatable, as is whether or not it's any good, but if nothing else it's fun to write, so...



Once Upon a Dork & Rubbery Night…
(A Prose Poem Verse Novel In Jabbernoir, or
An Attempt at The Silliest Book Ever Written.)

By Benito Di Fonzo

1.
It was a dork and rubbery night, and the clouds slipped across the sky like retarded postmen. I was wrapped up in a little Italian rat skin number, and my feet where bare and ready for attention.

No sooner had I walked out the door than a Warpsman clump wubbled with a swift sling of his rip to my rear. I shabbled to my spindling feet and sambad towards the door frame, gently nestling my brain Jackie O style between my bristling thrumb and forefingers. I could see this was to be a norbulous trip.

“Hey swanker” roared the Warpsmen, “lay off the glasse cherries or the ocra-pus splits, dig!”

“Sure fling postulate” I garbled sufficently, “I’m just a leadbelly trying to grab a grift, a grifter trying to seal a sermon for posterity, a surly man’s handbag, trying to get brine through life, so lay off the bump and hustle would you – peas?”

He bit me again, and then pulled a tightly rolled edition of the Johannesburg Yellow Pages from an inner sleeve. That must have knocked me fredo, for all I remember is the canary blur of it flying towards me, with a flump and cring. I was dripped.

The Birth Of Jabbernoir (Jabbernoir e Lychee Whine)

This was the original Jabbernoir piece. It was written on a hot afternoon in Surry Hills and performed that very night at "Token Word" at Knot Gallery. It was performed with a backing tracking that was a loop from a track by Andy Lane (with permission).

It was the beginning of a short and ugly friendship to misquote Casablanca, but the literary form would survive.

A recording of this track, with Andy Lane's backing, now appears on Going Down Swinging # 26)

A YouTube version appears HERE.



“Jabbenoir e Lychee Whine”
by Benito Di Fonzo & Gemnastics
B - It was a bold and rambling night, and I walked in faux suede blues along the streets of insecurity, my wet tips wimbling in the brine.

G - He’d left me in the twitters of a shallow fizz. It was lonely, I was bone, as hands scrambled madly for a suck of the dribbly teat.

B - I sorted through my bowels, and counted twenty rude-peas, and then I stumbled into a neon slumber by the name of Shard Fooki’s Udder Face Bar & Diner for an ampersandswich and limoni-whisky-bint.

G - I’d narrowly avoided the stump and thrizzle that could have meant toxic eye, luckily the hams I’ve ate renoodled me, and things were coming along veganly.

B - I sauntered like a jew-fish in a pool of purple jelly through the red green vinyl rotating light, and firmly pushed a stool into my behind, whilst lighting a cigarette in the back of my mind. It was then I smelt her across the room, her eyes steaming into a bowl of apathetic lychee whine and toady smack broth that bubbled across the booth as she snip snapped her pretty nostrils around them with a ‘clup, snuby, snide.’

G - I was clup snuppy sniding my flap wappies in peaceful contemplation, ironing the wrath from my snaggies, and then I frapped him. Smelling me across the room, libs winking like deep sea furnaces, spit drivelling into his apathetic lychee whine.

B - The Martin Borhman brought me a lychee whine, his tears still fresh upon the salt encrusted rim. Lychee whine?

G - Lychee whine?

B - He brought me my very first lychee whine. It was crisp as an imminent tsunami, and wide as the mouth of a whily retart. I simpled it with growing minimence, and rose from my stalk, turning towut her.

G - Strugidly I wimpered a restful figment. Pendulum dinged in my cleave badgery, I tamed it in horror as he eye-wiped me from the bar. I had to admit the way he flap-wassled my lychee brine gave me a twang bout the frip. A gizzly twang. I lapped a digit in suspense.

B - The band fired up about her, and she swined rimlessly to the beat, as they broke into a rendition of Einstein’s Theory of Relativity in G Minor, and as the Martine Borhmen reminded them that Minors were not allowed on the premises, they changed into a Masala Dosa in double time, and I began to Delhi-liciously Bollywood across the room toward her lascivious booths, bouncing in red leather armchair emulence, and snapping like angry mimes.

G - Throats were cooking. Munts were shunting, I felt myself heave in the general flatulence of his erection. I knew where this was going. I primed my booths ready and steadied my thong against his clavicle. He hurled by way of reply, drenching me in feasible rot juice, which I lubed with all my pole.

B - I licked the love juiceless sick from the underside of her tremulous fingers as a shaved poodle flew across the room, landing blackly in her drink, and she tittered like a rummed nun as the taste of hound blended with the lychees, and I played Dostoyevsky on her black keys with my big toe from behind. Just then the janitor broke into a solo, slightly to the left of the drummer’s pension cheque, and as she licked the table clean of all delusions, her nipple skimmed swiftly in the afterjoy, and the janitor went blind.

G - I reached around and with one glift swiff of the arm I plugged his bratwurst with my dignity. He regally complied, one leg on the band stand, the other in my left ventricle, as the cherries rained, and the sparrows fried, we blended like dog and seaweed cream coffee Broulee, and the crescendo thop throbbled and my holly bip dritted and we caked and minced and pie’d and snotted and whined and yollered, till the ceiling rained third-world infants. Then he licked me in the eye and said –

B - “Let’s get out of this euthanasia dole face, I got a pad of paper we could scribble in, I got a good mind but I left it behind.”

G - “Baby, you got everything, let’s try the high mile, pina colada style, show me that pad scribbler, let’s take it all over the page.”

B - And at that stage we left;

G - Pectoral upon clavicle,

B - Pocket upon surly purse.

G - We slutted on out of that pube forsaken doily bin,

B - Leaving a filmy frottage of rude fluids and lychee whine.

G - The rest, as they say…

B - Is antihistamine.