E U G E N E J O L A S
_____________________________________________________________FOUR POEMS, A STORY, & A JOURNAL-EXCERPT
Tittletattle-Sheet-Nocturne
Just listen to that gurglebubble, that tinklehum,
that ripplemutter!
Where's our sursumcordabraying youngling?
He's gone dancepurling with lead.
Do you hear those linotypists blubber boomrhythms?
The typesaws crissmesh the seconds.
The mercury-lamps purlezish reels.
Cold metal flipcrackles from out the leadpots.
Keyboards deepgliss minor.
Machines clackring with doodle-bangs.
Hot type dripdrops.
Humautomating operators bustle.
Brass letter-casts tintinkle into racks.
The forms get up and yawn.
They glissrush over the floor.
There is a vaultfrisk rocketing with spire-verbs.
The stereotype foundry is waking up.
What are they tallihooning over there?
They're whipcording the plates.
Mercurian lights dipbathe the flamecats.
Do you see the mats mating anywhere?
I am watching for them to blasticate.
The demonroots stalk.
Is the temperature in the casting-machine rightsideup?
We'll bustle after it.
Press that button, old burro, press it might-tighty in the panse!
Watch them cylinders and cauldrons and beams clipper-drive into the pipes and dials!
What a hisscrissing shotoon!
Listen to that blasting tune!
Clinkclankcling go the metal-blisters!
Get those asbestos-gloves, Jerry, you'll need ‘em soon
in the last biffbattle.
Pick off those revolving-cylinders and smack ‘em back
into the American melting-pot!
The brown mat waits and dozes in a corrugated flip.
Go ahead, old slum-hound, bang into the casting-baby
bunch it into the right place!
He's fribblesnoozing in mamaland.
We'll learn ‘im a line or two.
What's up now?
There she blows! A regular arch-fiend at arms' length.
Down she goes flipflapfloop!
Put the hooks into her!
Divorces can't wait.
How boomerous the plant!
The machines have got the jitters.
Talk to ‘em!
They won't listen.
What's old 36 pt. Gothic doing over in that corner?
Give ‘im the works!
The handsets don't stir, but old 72 Celtic miaunders
drumdroning into action.
Get that 99 pt. Aztec and give ‘im a coupla whacks
with old Fouettard's celebrated martinet!
Ouch! He's full of the old ahrimane.
The blisterhound! We'll see about ‘im.
Grab that 120 pt. Hellenic and get ‘im hitched up with
Lady 36 pt. Bordoni!
It isn't love at first sight.
Thasso? We'll have the law on ‘em, the cloven succubi
of Viziputzli!
How about that 49 pt. Cheltenham ? Do you think
he's doing what he oughter?
He's dozing in his cups.
We'll learn ‘im a thing or two.
Watch 340 pt. Visigothic! He's trying to sneak.
Call out the guards!
There's a rufflespell in the boobybox.
Did you glyph those mugs?
We snipsnapped ‘em coming and crowing.
Who's that gogglephiz with the masthead awry?
That's the bankbusting hellcook of West-Street.
Flash him on page 5!
And give young Jake Swivelback his due! He'll have
his long pants on soon.
What about the Hollywood Scandal?
We shot it right in the beezer.
Did that divorce-baby twinkle her hoolies?
She flipwinged her bathing statuary in a rumbacrackle.
Hold that line!
Smack old Buster Bixbie onto the last page!
He'll feel hopsossa next to the bathingbeachfaces and
he'll fluster no more.
Let'r roll and luster!
Pix and floot!
That's how it should be.
Yet when the old mustard king's at his best, he'll always
try to look his worst.
That's his own lookout.
Bang Lady Osgood into a new make-up!
Take old Uncle Gene and clasproll him into the eugen-
icon!
Lipstick the Hon. Root and give him the front-page
right in the snoot!
That'll keep him quiet for a while.
Do you know why the pixicato of the crime-wave hasn't
come in?
Hey, bambino!
He's dozing again.
Flix that Social Register at him!
Where's the Rev. Monday?
Keep him dry, for he'll soon be wet enough!
What's that twist dillyshallying her?
Sick her onto the Woolworth Building and give her the
fright of her life!
Ain't she cute though?
Hold the next page open for the Maharaja!
He'll be alright next to the Queenbee of the gyroscope
races.
What's the cokeblaster doing here?
He ripped the holaboaconstrictor in his bailiwick for
a couple of grands.
Burn him on page 7!
The paper has not yet gone to the dream-world.
There's a ringelineling in the city-room.
A bellophone blusterbellows.
Typewriters rickleclatter.
The last edition waits for the rumbletumble of the
press-artillery.
What's that guy bullmoaning about?
Get that tootleyawper out of here!
We have enough cacklelungers as it is.
The re-write desks cluster whisper-sheets.
Adjectives hold the verbs at bay.
The copytimeclock racks the eternal buzzers.
How stertorous time is now!
Even the mecketeers, shotees, banketeers, toughboobs,
lushies, meanies,
cokies, bigtimeblastards and smalltimebulls are yawping
for dodo.
Soon the logotype will lightshriek bingbangbing letters
in scarlet.
What's that bustlebass bellhooping about?
It's the chief who's helling and mooing.
Bark! goes the snarlyawl into the nicotinewhirl.
The ticker-room monoflicks the mystiflash.
Halt!
The news-rackers grey and groan.
White mountains pust and heave.
Oil steamglares on the floor.
Steel glisters orient.
Overheadlights platinumdaze.
How inkmoist the sheets have become!Abraxas!
What's holding up the blastlines?
Old Century Pt. 27 Afrikaans has left the bed and board
of his story-mate.The city waits for torrent-verbs.
It's very midnightdewy in the plant.
Paris , 1934-35.
back to Imagining Language supplement
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These selections by transition editor Eugene Jolas are from his first book, I Have Seen Monsters and Angels, published by his Transition Press in 1938.
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