As Doctor Umbilico, the sole surviving descendent of the ever-distinguished family of psychoplasticists known collectively as the LessesnotMoore Clan and leader of the great People for the Advancement of Lying, I am simultaneously alive and posthumous, a hovel within a novel, a lone lover on the lam. I am woven of such seemingly disparate elements, I unforgettably impact myself! Am I so disguisewise? Only as a contriver of wisdom in bad sentences and buzzing Tourette rows of opulent word-whine. White as a Dresden Lilac suffering incendiary, I stuff the mice of your stifling mind with surgical slop, my psycho-scalpel borrowed from the camp grounds of your past, dismissing the blood shed in Doktor Freud’s snuffbox, that useless nicety of powdering one’s nose at god in the absence of the thumbnail up his anal phase.
If I tell you more I’ll konfuse you! But since I’m already on the bus … I am more than a writer, more than writing itself! I am a temporal surgery with a stream of destinations, the description of which cannot be coherently manuscripted until the eyes of the past catch up with the pens of the future! But my intuition tells me my final location will involve sponges and trigonometry! But never mind all that heteroplexy! I am not a destiny but a glossary of mercury and sulfer sermons that only the stars of my future selves will horrorscopereveal. I am a serendipity because I am findfounding now and will have predetermfounded Psychobiblia, the great son who finally kills his father and makes mother sleep with the corpse!
I write the war against Celebrity Confessionalism! Better than the war against clichés, which delinks Skinfotainment from the average public service announcement, double-linking it with the Pulizterstege and Nobelprizepompomstance of my Nomadiclinic!
Oh no no no. The question should be: Why do I have such a good unconscious? Oh, books in cloisters, drinks served and reserved as I study and write, making one the neither and the other the same. My undermind roils with winter and ditches, monomaniacal rivers and schizophrenic delights. That’s not to say that the books write themselves. They don’t! But it’s still a blind process, shivering in the absence of dopamine as my ganglions and synapses bite on coal from my brain cellar.
I scan your face to see if you’re serious with this question .... I can keep quiet, without clamoring for attention, but you make a sort of pilgrimage with these nonsurgicalsense questions, as if the next thrilling episode were just around the Canterbury! Yes, dancing in the evenings, glittering over the dance floor, booze and flatulence to stave off the ceremony of stories you’ll tail another day. Open up now in skin and mind while you’re on my meter! Let me ask the questions and force you to stop avoiding the acid scent of your impossible Twilight of the Icons! If you want an interview, let me recommend you to Lip C. Blue, who is now mine to bestow. But here you’ve come to me in an emergency of a chinache and a browrow. Are you sure it’s your syphotelligence and not that moustache disowning your cognition, tightening your every thought with the fire sky ribbon of the Dresden Phlox I taxonomize in my forthcoming Pscyhobiblia? Or something Lip C. Blue, that smells of youth? Pull that wooden spoon from your ear and I’ll conscio your cocoa.
My favorite books ...
Books I like must wrangle, smack, hassle and hash. I like squabbles, locking horns, pounding, pummeling, rapping, slamming, bucking! I like altercations, whacks and whomps, bearing down upon sheep, lashes, lambastes, spanks, strikes and tinkles! Books that wallop, whip and jump out of the box you don’t even know how to think inside of let alone out! Books that punch and punish, thump their effectiveness and force with verve and validity! And I like pages that are exceedingly white. Professionally bleached in Hungary!
