Not that I would ever make fun of Kerouac, but

by Billectric

Posted to WritersAndGenres on 2004-07-06 17:22:00

if I did, it might go something like this:

I clickity-clack stick drag along red brick walls snap-walk in Lowell street a Saturday movie or spokes in the bicycle wheels. Old Farty Blakely tossing a frog and never changed his drawers, tragic drawers (and moon-man smear sadness).

Buck-toothed Alladans and freckly pimple thin boy round the alley, past the red brick of Lowell after noon, in fact Saturday, with tragic baseball games up the park down the lane.

Darkness, old bums, my father shouting in French about the player piano which wasn’t tuned except to some ear of corny vaudvillian snope, Liberace, in fact, on old black & white TV and old blues men in the pub, where a dark shadowy hat whips around the wall in the corner of my I.

Night secret for some; homosexuality was involved. Tragically. (and in fact, parenthetically) but Allan will fill you in on that later; in fact he did, (paranthatical, parochial, cyclical), but that was before I went to the lady in the blue dress, tragic blue dress in fact.

Rainy fog-grappled fee-fi-ford, Model T, or the old Nash Rambler which we had to push to RATTLE-RROOOM down over cobbled quacking brick-road side-alley, Gasoline Alley pigeon birds flailing and leaves, tragic in fact.