I sort liked that. By the top third of the second page I was just laughing, of course.
“Her navel winked like a doll’s eye, like the eye of a whale, like the drowsy cat…”
Okay, now I’m officially creeped out.
No.
Exapno Mapcase’s long slim fingers, thin and as stiff as reeds, type the bilious cherries of absinthe with a forceful clacking like the solid ringing of distant anvils, and the desperate keys rise up to meet each caress of their lifeless plastic molding that gushes out spurts of words - words that splatter the page like the dappled light illuminating fragile autumn butterflies that are breathing their last as the cycle threatens to begin anew with the harsh fall of winter, a black curtain that will darken all, even the watery depths of plankton whose whole life is over with the desperate gasping gulp of a larger creature, overshadowing even the rasping hum of Hermes’ forge as the sweat drips from his wine-soaked pours, and leaves even the prescient Cassandra, whose ocean blue eyes are shadowed with the sorrow of gnashing, ignored foreknowledge alone with things that are no longer remembered but still haunt her; the black sans-serif lettering, jealously ashamed by their lack of adornment, can not be silent, and set up a wailing that awakens slumbering dragon’s teeth buried deep in the earth of a flat white expanse of a blank, utterly unfulfilled box, that contains not even hope. But as each flat black soldier skitters across the page, it fights desperately against a force that would ridicule, and abort the mission before it can march across the worn chesterfield that has served as a vestigial temple before this, countless times beyond even Cassandra’s recall, the board which the players move, and the support for the embattled general who labors over a task more demanding than even the one the well-muscled Hercules faced as he fought against insurmountable piles of stinking waste created by the king’s favorite, flame-eyed, steel-hoofed, severe and wild mounts. At the last second, just as the struggle to expel a mewling idea into the world seems nearly lost, Exapno Mapcase smites the Submit button with a ringing blow. Even the dancing satyrs in the next field, lost in a harden haze of lust for both the flesh and Diyonous’s poisoned but seductive brew, look up in an unabashed wonder. Triumphant, Exapno Mapcase feels a damn break within, freeing his pride at a job well done, to run rampant over all who dare deny their majesty, and awing all that look upon his words.
There’s more. Someone did an illustration as well. Curious spiders, buzzing pubes, legs like anacondas, what’s not to love?
Actually, the book says “Her pubes was a field of wheat…etc.” Get it right, er…wrong.
I personally like “Her feet were springs, marmosets or locusts…”
Marmosets? Really?
I’d hit it.
I’m really disappointed that the description of her knees didn’t indicate the level of sharpness.
Learn something new every day. I now know the colour of a leopard’s tongue and that the gibbous moon has a fragrance. And her tongue was “amber” . Orange? translucent?full of fossilised insects? generating static electricity?
I have to confess I was relieved to discover that her breasts were “domed”.
Beats hell outta post-and-lintel construction.
Her eyes are the sound of rain…So she has thunder in her face?
On the Amazon page, there’s a beautiful blurb.
Take a moment to think about the different ways that can be interpreted, and imagine Clarke laughing his ass off.
The illustration is definitely the best part! I’m literally crying from laughter right now. I’m almost afraid to download the voice reading… I think someone should combine the voice reading with a video of each of the things described and post it to youtube…
It makes much more sense if you know that Bronwyn is a Hobbit.
What struck me was
Having re-read that putrid piece of purple prose (purple? Heck, it’s ultraviolet!), I think I’m going to have to compare it to a mongoose’s fart on a windy day, the sheen of nailpolish on an elk’s big toe, and the howling chartruese agony of an unopened can of motor oil.
Also, it sucks like hungry newborn baby.
Good lord.
I confess I haven’t been able to slog through this. In the middle of the second paragraph I noticed that most of the sentences started with “like” – so I scanned. Holy Metaphor, Batman!! (Although it’s even funnier that he started with similes and then immediately gave them up. He can’t even decide on a literary device.)
Dude. Just. Pick. One. You don’t need to quote the entire thesaurus. A “niche, an alcove” and “an apse”? All at once, or one at a time? 
“…her stomach was an idol in the niche, alcove, or apse” had me rolling.
Mundanely, it reads like the stream of consciousness free writing a (very untalented) writer might churn out in the desperation of trying to come up with a fresh metaphor to describe his sex object.
You know, the old ‘go ahead and write down any crap that occurs to you’, which you later delete once you’ve found one good metaphor?
This guy just forgot about the deleting step. :rolleyes:
Though, dude, the idea with a metaphor is to draw attention to a trait that two unrelated objects share. I can sort of see some of the links, but others? Tongue = amber? Let’s see, one is soft, wet, mobile, pink, living. The other is hard, dry, inert, yellow, dead. Huh?
That’s… uh. Wow.
I prefer maggock’s interpretation because it ticked my memory (as well as my gag reflex). Behold*.
*No disrespect intended; apparently that “picture book” I leafed through in childhood did some searing of its own.