(no subject)
Act 1:
The setting: a restaurant, devisive waiter. The crowd observes the seating of a family of 4 individuals caked in a thick crust-like flour. It is readily apparent that mating season is in effect. The view of the audience is blockaded by a sheet of drywall revealing the kitchen. The pregnant chef stirs a large black cauldron. Sitting uncomfortably in the rear of the restaurant is a man in a bubbling hot tub. Periodically he stirs and glances toward the door with the intent of escape. A fruitless struggle.
The lines are delivered smarmy discourse.
Waiter: And thusly I have been haunted with terrifying visions, to please.
Guest 2: I will have the special.
Guest 1: What is the soup of the day-to-day to-day?
Waiter: The south will rise again, to please.
Guest 4 rises, offended by the heinous crime of the waiter. He storms out the door and is immediately replaced by a businessman holding a conference over telephone. Guest 4 remains absent for the duration of the play.
Guest 3: The weather has arrived, and so am I. There is an iodine deficiency, the macros are out of balance. The heating element sparks the daytime, the “ball” of the metric foot shines through a pane of sweet sugar.
Waiter exits to take a seat in the crowd. The burgeoning belly of the pregnant chef is seen to impede the stirring of the cauldron. The man in the hot tub begins to sweat behind his sunglasses. His eyes make for the shape of the door.
Guest 1: C'est la vie.
Guest 1: We are all sinners. None are without crime, purview, latent lament. Mechanical social interactions flake our baking skulls. The knob to adjust the fine tuning lies just below the knob to adjust the coarse tuning. The knob to adjust the fine tuning lies just below the knob to adjust the coarse tuning.
Guest 3: The knob to adjust the coarse tuning lies just above the knob to adjust the fine tuning.
Guest 1: We spend our lives writing backwards messages on the wall Succinct. The man of the corner house will mine his reds until the rain begins to cook.
Guest 2: The slides. The circus, maybe. Infants, paralysis. The world, swearing to secrecy, crystalline, mounds of them. His blacksmith shape is formed of memories of dusty jars; I chose you for your caustic wit and I chose you for the gentle rise of your cleft cheek.
The waiter returns. He wears a mantel. This is because his skin is transparent. The finer architecture of his body becomes apparent as the fabric slides to reveal his vulnerabilities. His mortality is readily on display, flirting with the blackness of probability. The damaged waiter. The man in the hot tub nods and continues to sweat behind his sunglasses.
Guest 1: We are children. Penetants penetrating. Flagellants. Cilia.
Guest 2: Make haste. Utilizing
The man in the hot tub continues to sweat.
Guest 3: Hearken, a squall comes. I feel the subtle quake in my knees, an induced response, reflex. The beast of the orient writhes in orgiastic finery. Make haste. We are trapped, we are sons.
Guest 1: The knob to adjust the Fine tuning lies medial to the femoral artery to the left of the wave flight. The light beckons. We are punished.
Guest 2: The minimum punishment for treason is death at the hands of one's peers. The maximum punishment for treason is death and the hands of one's peers. An offense has been will be committed, an intreatable act in vitro.
The man in the hot tub continues to sweat.
Guest 2: The man in the hot tub continues to sweat.
Guest 1: The man in the hot tub continues to breathe.
Guest 3: The man in the hot tub continues to sweat.
Guest 1: The knob to adjust the fine tuning is slightly below and to the left of the knob to adjust the coarse tuning.
Guest 3: Hence the broken lightbulb refuses not to shine but to succumb to the hegemony of the man who turns the switch.
Slowly the coats of the closet begin to wear each other.
Act 2:
Guest 2: Your flesh is terrifying out of season.
Guest 1: I do not concern myself with the politics of sundials.
Guest 3: You deny yourself. The absence of the middle is formed not by halves but by an obscene gape in the jaw of reason. Physically you engage to respire but
Guest 1: Retire your engagement to factual enterprises. There is nothing strange of my appearance.
Guest 2: And thus the Balance is skewed.
The man in the hot tub continues to sweat behind his sunglasses.
Curtain.
The setting: a restaurant, devisive waiter. The crowd observes the seating of a family of 4 individuals caked in a thick crust-like flour. It is readily apparent that mating season is in effect. The view of the audience is blockaded by a sheet of drywall revealing the kitchen. The pregnant chef stirs a large black cauldron. Sitting uncomfortably in the rear of the restaurant is a man in a bubbling hot tub. Periodically he stirs and glances toward the door with the intent of escape. A fruitless struggle.
The lines are delivered smarmy discourse.
Waiter: And thusly I have been haunted with terrifying visions, to please.
Guest 2: I will have the special.
Guest 1: What is the soup of the day-to-day to-day?
Waiter: The south will rise again, to please.
Guest 4 rises, offended by the heinous crime of the waiter. He storms out the door and is immediately replaced by a businessman holding a conference over telephone. Guest 4 remains absent for the duration of the play.
Guest 3: The weather has arrived, and so am I. There is an iodine deficiency, the macros are out of balance. The heating element sparks the daytime, the “ball” of the metric foot shines through a pane of sweet sugar.
Waiter exits to take a seat in the crowd. The burgeoning belly of the pregnant chef is seen to impede the stirring of the cauldron. The man in the hot tub begins to sweat behind his sunglasses. His eyes make for the shape of the door.
Guest 1: C'est la vie.
Guest 1: We are all sinners. None are without crime, purview, latent lament. Mechanical social interactions flake our baking skulls. The knob to adjust the fine tuning lies just below the knob to adjust the coarse tuning. The knob to adjust the fine tuning lies just below the knob to adjust the coarse tuning.
Guest 3: The knob to adjust the coarse tuning lies just above the knob to adjust the fine tuning.
Guest 1: We spend our lives writing backwards messages on the wall Succinct. The man of the corner house will mine his reds until the rain begins to cook.
Guest 2: The slides. The circus, maybe. Infants, paralysis. The world, swearing to secrecy, crystalline, mounds of them. His blacksmith shape is formed of memories of dusty jars; I chose you for your caustic wit and I chose you for the gentle rise of your cleft cheek.
The waiter returns. He wears a mantel. This is because his skin is transparent. The finer architecture of his body becomes apparent as the fabric slides to reveal his vulnerabilities. His mortality is readily on display, flirting with the blackness of probability. The damaged waiter. The man in the hot tub nods and continues to sweat behind his sunglasses.
Guest 1: We are children. Penetants penetrating. Flagellants. Cilia.
Guest 2: Make haste. Utilizing
The man in the hot tub continues to sweat.
Guest 3: Hearken, a squall comes. I feel the subtle quake in my knees, an induced response, reflex. The beast of the orient writhes in orgiastic finery. Make haste. We are trapped, we are sons.
Guest 1: The knob to adjust the Fine tuning lies medial to the femoral artery to the left of the wave flight. The light beckons. We are punished.
Guest 2: The minimum punishment for treason is death at the hands of one's peers. The maximum punishment for treason is death and the hands of one's peers. An offense has been will be committed, an intreatable act in vitro.
The man in the hot tub continues to sweat.
Guest 2: The man in the hot tub continues to sweat.
Guest 1: The man in the hot tub continues to breathe.
Guest 3: The man in the hot tub continues to sweat.
Guest 1: The knob to adjust the fine tuning is slightly below and to the left of the knob to adjust the coarse tuning.
Guest 3: Hence the broken lightbulb refuses not to shine but to succumb to the hegemony of the man who turns the switch.
Slowly the coats of the closet begin to wear each other.
Act 2:
Guest 2: Your flesh is terrifying out of season.
Guest 1: I do not concern myself with the politics of sundials.
Guest 3: You deny yourself. The absence of the middle is formed not by halves but by an obscene gape in the jaw of reason. Physically you engage to respire but
Guest 1: Retire your engagement to factual enterprises. There is nothing strange of my appearance.
Guest 2: And thus the Balance is skewed.
The man in the hot tub continues to sweat behind his sunglasses.
Curtain.