Here we are, then! The long awaited second letter makes its public appearance.
Dutifully I had replied to Arthur's first missive, describing my recent dalliances, but the fact that my letter is not mentioned in this second instalment of the Habsburg saga, put towards the news that Count Arthur has moved residence, makes me doubt whether he ever got to read it. That being as it is, I cannot call this a reply, but only what it is: letters part 2.
"Guten Tag Liebe Chucky,
I have a strong feeling that you are doing
fine, because I'd had a dream that
you have acquired a stern, pear-shaped
dog, with a good straight nose, and cubism-eye,
and that he is sublime at looking after
himself! His name is eleven and he
does not allow you to wash the dishes
and can generate smells spontaneously
for himself to follow, dragging you behind
smoothly along the raspberry jam rails
you wear a dotted dress and (your)
lipstick is on (your) cheeks! You cry,
'eleven! eleven!', and he responds by
making his tail into a rainbow!
You have lots and lots of fun, even though
you both know, that only one of yous will
live as long as the seaturtle!
I want to start by declaring that I
am the King of the Corn Forest!
And I say forest, NOT field, for
a field is someplace where one plays
ball, whereas a forest is a fractal being!
Now, you might say that for a citizen-
grasshopper, or a fellow citizen-ladybug,
a grassfield, or a patch of green I
periodically trodd upon on my way to another
space-time, instead of following the gravelpath
which a consciencious citizen-human ought to do, is
as much a forest as anything. And you might
I cannot even attempt to analyse this dream-adventure Art describes to me. But I do now feel the pressure of having to acquire, by any means necessary, a pear-shaped dog, and to send pictures by mail to Warendorf, Germany as proof.
What I do wish to draw your attention to, however, is Arthur's sudden and consistent use of a Royal vocabulary to refer to himself. Note that he is no longer just the Prince, - the nickname I have myself used several times when referring to him - no, he has now ascended, in his mind at least, to the rank of King. King of the realm he now tries to explain to us in elaborate and cumbersome words so as to cloud our understanding of the world in general.
be right, as it does seem to follow the
fractal conception. However, what (?!)
in this case, is a field for your regular
citizen grasshopper, or his fellow citizen
ladybug?! Anyway, you must forgive
my ignorance in considering my kingdom
as being located in the quintessentially
full-bodied-spectrum level of fractal
existence as it is merely, and
innocently rooted in my general's limited
power of conquest and the unwillingness
of diplomatic reach!
All I can say is that my current staff
are hereditary pillars, while I have been elected
by the wind and the stars and the
cracks in the pavement.
As any substantial monarch I do not
reside where I rule. I have been put up
in a permanently temporal residence on
Marktplatz, second floor, a building to the
right of goldmerchant Ferdinand Wessleman's
shop, that is always closed, overlooking the
market square. It is a cake to behold!
I cannot see the cornforest from there, but
I can see buildings, like giant high-fives,
with a few extra fingers with mosaic veins.
When I moved in, the flat consisted of
floorboards, evenly laminated with historic
dust, wall capsules and ceilings that I
still lose sight of. There was a single
dim lightbulb in the vertically disproportionate
bathroom, hanging like a man who hung himself
An elected monarch?
|What would a fractal cornforest look like, the editor ponders...|
with a rubber rope. Now I have a washing-
fridge with a square-spin action and a
freezing-dryer that runs on KRAUT.
Piece by piece I'll acquire a spot-lightbulp and
my many fans. Meanwhile, I am building another
floor, so as not to disturb the historic dust.
But soon, maybe even by the time you open
this letter, I will have finished the act of
the carpenter and with swollen hands begun
a new play altogether"
SEnd me pictures of your DOG!
One wonders whether the ancient dust at the gold merchant's neighbouring flat might have contained some residual flakes of hallucinatory agents...
I do hope my mustard poem
had survived the reappearance
in another space-time continuum,
But since I have no certainty in
that, here is a dip-free poem:
Ship me your purple toenails,
And a matchbox full of rain.
I have found treasure with a toothpick,
It lays me off from being sane.
A street of hay inside my kitchen,
A bat-like hob that lays an egg,
I eat the silhouettes of friction,
And drink the moisture off my leg.
My cat is privatizing sunshine,
While I invest in Northern lights,
My retrospective is abundant,
My hats are not of heights!
I Am a gentleman from now on,
Unless I meet some nervous limbs,
which use their mouths for spitting yellow,
And wear min crowbars on their chins
And until next time.