"I am sweet, o young, mod dancer."
"You? I fret the stars--chanting, mating the stomach's mix to the feast of several well-known meats, causing the well-enmeshed to refrain from 'mush! mush!' at crude, angry beasts--and the stars, well-fretted by me, enjoy a flashing up the whole-tone scale, down the half-tones-intermixed-with-certain-whole-tones scale well-known by you and me, and finally exhibit the greatest merit to one and all, flaming, choosing the right sort of wildness there in the sky for each reader to spank, euphorically, lapping it up like the stalwart bionics of the '70s and their plaid-shitted poodles, terrific, terrific I say metaphorically as well as with a certain embryo in my manner of speech, which speaks well of the factors, those nicely wrought factors so terrific in our environment, the flat-fact environment of the much-described moderns...."
"You speak of the moderns! That is you. You are the moderns, euphoric, guilty yes but contrived too much to be solely a mess, cheese in your gifts, cheese and no end of cheese in your gifts. I am terribly given to admiration of those sweet cheeses of your gifts, those life-mentioning cheeses so curtly propounded by you, there in your slip-up meringue life of solid, unmitigated silk. But I--and this I must hammer like sad tickles upon your flatulent, ever-flatulent ears--I am sweet, as sweet as the seven 'hithers' of Annabelle the mistaken-for-tiny, as sweet as any journey of breezes mothering qualms upon the sick breast of an autumn day such as, say, this. This day, I mean."
"Your math is clean. Your platitudes reek, however, of seventeen mute and scream-wearied bladder infections--rectitude-burnished though they be, though they be. I, unlike the palsied modern musics...."
"You, perhaps, are not so understanding of that which is called 'your musty, love-maggoty emanations of pore.' Meaning yours, for it is only by you that I repel myself, only by you that my fiery senses five are trapped in a poorly mittened game of 'Here it is the other's clock.' If you knew your own clasping match of lips, your own flight of gas-bedraggled eyelids, your own fusty septum, you would not, as I see you do, berate the myriad gumptions of your obvious frame."
"For I am not nearly so flip and ill-cordoned as that putrid flank, that putrid flank of a colt, a colt so downright unrighted by slack...."
"Modern? Your so-called modern musics?"
"Yes."
"I have only to nod in your direction, in the flat-chit direction of the clammy, pariah-basted monkey-wanna-be that you aren't (I scream your plastic sky-high, I bereave you of no suddenness)--I have only to nod for you to be what you are, the total semblance of everything chosen, the monster of nice conception in the unhappy dais outside the choice vacation spot of several honorable-mention sorts, nice conception like a perfect bumpkin upon that structure, that joyous, elite structure turned sad and shunned suddenly, mysteriously, one summer long ago--but that is a story with Kate."