Directions: non-writing players announce words out loud at random, and the writers must then incorporate these words into their automatic text.
Players: AM, BO, TC, HC, SC
VERSION 1 (BO)
The door mouse slipped through the crack in the basement, scurrying past pelvic bones with spindly legs. The sham was up the calf turned roach, Kafka’s Babylon brought dawn to the babbling brook. Eyelids blink back dawn dish soap orange urine impeding rays of light. Egg layers x ray 142 egg rollers two toned fur ball rhetoric taints cityscape-loving birdman. Hawk feathers erupt intestinal trumpets “love live laugh” the catacomb reads. Horse, radish, helmet meteoroid (telephone rings) this is it faucet dripping tadpoles exceptionally aluminum. United States, foreign luminaries on a post card my dirty socks beautiful in the plaid alignment carpeted floor open door laundry room deep space deep space deep space deep space deep space deep space deep space deep space deep space. My 10 sided form apologizing profusely from chimney alchemy, soot dust dirt, the swift upstroke an orangutan toenail on a faceless sea, the sailboat improved. Library perversity can’t help but consume mushrooms the chicken of the woods growing from the back of prometheus. The sphincter of the sphinx dimming the light as a lampshade.
VERSION 2 (AM)
A door mouse? A debasement of basements? What is this occult pelvic bone of thought! Let me tell you, detail to you, this enigma, this sheer elephant’s trunk! I was locked in a locked trunk, and with me, a spindly shaman. He used a copy of Kafka to open the trunk, revealing a babbling brook of dawn dish soap.
“Good lord” said I. “Is this an orange black hole?”
“Nay” said the shaman. “Tis my urine.”
“Great egg layer!” I exclaimed. “142 ounces of disgust fill my soul, you infernal fur ball.”
He waved me away. “Enough of the rhetoric. Ticks are after you, birdman.”
I announced with my intestinal trumpet that I had to get out of this cat’s paw of flowing yellow catacombs. The shaman, at a loss, drank horseradish.
Oh, rhetoric of the parenthetic telephone—am I truly alone in this waterfall of a dead man’s tiny tadpole and egg sack? I wanted to go back in the box, where there was no illumination, where I could not see my soiled sheets. But I was out in the world, soaked by shamanic schnitzel, flying through deep space, the only other person now a horseradish shuttle of alchemy without apology. Oh, chimney of my swift orangutan, my toenails are peeking through, faceless, like a porcupine perversity. I cannot go on! But my face is a library of mushrooms, ye chicken of the woods. Prometheus am I, a sphinx of tail-to-snout eating. My sphincter permanently open. Woe…
VERSION 3 (TC)
I am a door mouse in de basement. I am also into the occult. When I was projecting into the astral plane, I saw a locked trunk spinning over the head of sam the shaman. I opened the chest at dawn and out poured a black hole into my eyelid. I was transformed to the orange planet. 142 chickens came out of the caves chased by fur ball cats. I ran as fast as I could when I heard the sound of trumpets. I’m just an intern at this cat spa. The horseman caught up to me just as I would have been destroyed by a meteoroid. I thanked the horseman by giving him my prize aluminum postcard. In return he gave me thumbscrews. They aligned when they met, opening deep space before us. We looked upon the cosmic dodecahedron. It apologized for the universe’s lack of alchemy. We burned our sacrifices in a chimney, and the ashes assembled into a faceless porcupine. It told us out purpose, so we rushed to the library. We read the forbidden knowledge. The librarian shushed us persistently.
