The upcoming novel by K Kishmot
His is the business of being wreathed
In underpants around his neck
The heady odours seduce his braincells
With the emphasis on usura
His songwords are impoverished by his riches
And the little insects that give him itches
What are his songs for?
They play and annoy us time and time again
But he is a hero
To the populace who have a reading age of ten
We took offering
From the discalced goblins
The snukes of visual evil
Chopped at pixel-pixies
Fluklon tortoise with explosion vests
Mocked the tint and timbre of the downtrodden
The eyes of the pukka yukka
Grew into numberless consciousnesses
I am working on a children’s picture book. It’s been exciting and I’m going to do more.
I will post more details soon. As you know, for kids’ books I write under the name of Francis K. Shaffah.
On his way back with the water, he got lost on a detour around a fallen tree, and as he looked for his way through the woods, he heard a voice ask from the underbrush, ‘Have you anything to drink?’ He saw a uniform. Thinking there was just one soldier, he approached with the water. When he had penetrated the bushes, he saw there were about twenty men, and they were all in exactly the same nightmarish state: their faces were wholly burned, their melted eyesockets were hollow, the fluid from their melted eyes had run down their cheeks. (They must have had their faces upturned when the bomb went off; perhaps they were anti-aircraft personnel.) Their mouths were mere swollen, pus-covered wounds, which they could not bear to stretch enough to admit the spout of the teapot. So Father Kleinsorge got a large piece of grass and drew out the stem so as to make a straw, and gave them all water to drink that way. One of them said, ‘I can’t see anything.’ Father Kleinsorge answered as cheerfully as he could. ‘There’s a doctor at the entrance to the park. He’s busy now, but he’ll come soon and fix your eyes, I hope.’