Xenofib and xenophobia are often synonyms just as hate and envy often spring from the same well. The xenophobic wasp explores her creases of skin and lace with delicate embrace while xenofibbing about her loathing of that other race she dreams is filling the place her husband dreams was more nappy than straight. Conversely, the maid wishes she was the matron as the doorman takes riff-raff personally as yellow stars mutated to pink Palestinian license plates as the only advice I could’ve given Trotsky would’ve been “Run boy run! Keep running! The xenofibs are autophobes hunting xenophobes to avoid autoprobes! Run!”
-- Chris Leo
xxex is one last chance after the last sentence to slide some slightly soprasubliminal covetousness in, but let it breathe while things mend. Six months minimum after the last curt “Sincerely” vented (though more cold “Sincerely”s may counterintuitively be the apt approach to send – at all costs keeping cloaked any ideas of getting back in bed). Never, don’t bother, move on, if the letters always ended in “Love”, and regardless -- now is no time for hearts. The theory is that the evolution of post break-up post scripts should start with ‘xoxo’ and shorten to an ‘x’ getting rid of the hugs, keeping every phrase fast and every paragraph neat supplying not a crumb she can crumble up to aggravate this feat. In its rise you might remind her you’re a guy with an ‘xy’ before saying bye, then cross your fingers and let it linger with an ‘xxx’ for at least a week. After that, step back with ‘xx(ks)’ to have her thinking that you’re sweet. But let it breathe, let it breathe, always let these breathe. When the message has matured and the missives have massaged, drop the bomb and send us a thank you from the sheets.
xxex = the mistake is to view the final letters of the alphabet as the end when they are truthfully just the most recent additions, innovations in fact, lengthening the tail…
-- Chris Leo
Yarely is a pondersomely all-encompassing fixed morning glare beyond over yonder all the way ‘round the sphere until it returns back to the cap like a weary pelligrino for the first sip of cappuccino. While it’s still “early” the ancient root of the word ayer brings us from way back then, to last “year”, to “ieri” (“yesterday” in Italian), to “here”, to “there”, and yarely we think how we barely make it. "Yearn" has the word "year" in it and comes from the North Umbrian word "giorna" which is nearly identical to the Italian word for day "giorno" though North Umbria and Umbria proper are far far away from each other and where has all the time gone and how much is left? But don't worry about it, it's still yarely. A yearning yen for something is one long longing and the cosmos is a mess this morning. “Everything ok, honey?” “…What?…Oh sorry babe, got lost watching the pigeons from the kitchen window, but it’s still yarely, just give me a second.” And if this catches you while yarely, try wrapping your head around this: "ano" is Italian for "anus" and once meant just "a ring, "anno" is Italian for "year" and was once the diminutive of anus...
-- Chris Leo
Zed. Woe the American abroad who craved exoticism but, feeling too lazy to learn another language, chose Scotland where it was once believed we shared a common tongue. In fact, not only do we not speak the same breed of English, but when the sentences also come mixed with Doric, Gaelic, and Tennents, learning Russian may have been easier afterall. Consider then returning to the States spat in the face like a Vietnam vet held responsible themselves for the unpopular war when Britishisms like “bum a fag” and “cues are for neds” sneak in. Americans hate what they consider to be the forced extrinsic linguistics of these repats, though the truth is Americans have no idea just how many other “foreign English” words they suppress. It isn't easy. The worst is when other Americans who’ve spent time in Britain in the past as well, forgetting just how difficult the transition was for them too, call you a Zed.
Ned stands for “Non Educated Delinquent” in Britain + Zed is halfway between "Zeta" and "Z" = certain parts of Ireland call Neds "spides" because their fetal alcohol syndrome and methamphetamine raised body resembles the big belly and skinny limbs of a spider. When the American who chose Ireland like the American who chose Scotland encounters the other American who chose Ireland and one calls the other a "spied" = choose your side, chameleon
-- Chris Leo
No comments:
Post a Comment