The Green Hills of Morok

We rejoin our contafulous pair in the most pear-like of circumstances: enhanced by a nuclear cruiser, they hang by the merest sliver of repugnance from a basket of large cherry droppings, put expressly upon a razor blade for their own  entrapment by Mr. Tweed.  (Ah, Mr. Tween … captor of nations,  Magenschmerz  of all vibrations, redeemer of the vile, emperor of the undressed, undeserving utterer of the underserved, main waiter at the Café Tom on East 14th St., vast and ultimate power of gasoline fumes, etc.)  (Not THAT Mister Preen, you fool!)  The situation, as you can well imagine, my friends, is desperate.  They have no need of regret, no remorse courses through their pale brains, for they know that their lives have been suffused with Pig Latin, the Other White Language — and yet … and yet there is a hint of trouble in Willina’s pinkish eyes.  She reaches over to Pubert — she begins to breathe into his ear — she recoils at the smell and thinks better of it — now she thinks worse

Scraunched. Splirged. Threalt. Crug. Snik. Bep. Ap. Q! December 12, 1909. [1]   A light rain fell today.  In the hotel room no one was listening.  The señoritas [2]  said I was dashing in my purple outfit.  Was dashing the right word?  I don't know anything any more.  The rain flickers fleetingly on some streets. March 14, 1919.  More rain. [3] March 22, 1999.  For too long have I been sitting in the hotel making passes at myself [4]  and feints at the front door [5] .  If my daughter, God rest her perfumed old soul, were still with us, I'd make sure that she would get me out of this fine fancy pickle.  Fine, French, fiduciary-assed pickle. March 24, 9999.  A light rain fell today. [6]   In it I saw: the pelts of fifty thousand hussars who had been dematerialized in their suitcases; a smattering of German; two pickle-dogs who had lived life to the last drop of goodness; a man who was left over from the days of Petunias; a war case from the tele