guttersnipery, chiggery, buttery, confusery.

Play my entrance bongos.

Nameless self-convicting wonder of this modern age, in preponderance of his own insomnulent imagination, sin unto dirge, Fruit of the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil: a balancer of untruths. Few enough armchair Kierkegaards cajole or roam the dusky plains in what would be “self-less guttersnipery”, to the worst of his ontology, the disbelief of his own daydreaming….

The guttersnipe selects his involuble charge.

(Odd. I knew this word, something of the 16th century, without any idea of its textual usage: I smell a certain Southern stream-of-consciousness writer.)

Chair of the desk, at his mess, in a contradictory smiling rage—joker grin, with his joke being that he began at all, methods unsound, in diction of archaic words, nested phrases, bald-faced duplicity, and, of course, foreign phrases.

Its quite like finding a chigger’s ass-button hole-in-the-wall butter reasons for buttery stockpiles of greenbacks from his buttery working: its not like he’s gonna use it.

Locating one’s modus.

The guttersnipe could apply himself to finding the nap-nose of his own fuse, too.