Balloons in the Sky with Diamonds

Leo Cullum’s cartoon on page 56 of the April 17 New Yorker is basically an illustration of an experimental fiction piece I wrote a decade ago in which acid and dealer are played by balloon and clown. Full trip after the jump.

Hey kid.  Where did ya get that balloon?  You get it from the clown over there?  Watch out, kid.  You don’t know where that clown’s been.

Wait sir.  All he gave me was a balloon.  He isn’t one of those dirty old men.  Clowns are happy and colorful and harmless.  What can go wrong?

Blah kid.  He’s colorful and inviting and provides fun for all.  He gives you balloons and a smile and sends you on your way.  Balloons are fun, if you’re prepared.

Lip sir.  Prepared?  Balloons are simple.  I can hold a bubble of novelty at my fingertips for the less of a carry my fun.  Who likes to join the parade?

World kid.  Responsibility holds the balloon in your grip, and if you slip then a blip blip blip and your balloon takes a trip.  Fun floats away, friend, and who knows where it goes?

Swirl sir.  Swaying songs of circles dance above the mind of my youth.  I look at the pretty color and the bubble powers its flight through my soul.  Where will it go bad?  Who knows of how my balloon will dream?  Why would wonders pull me apart?

Loops in the kid.  Balloons sway whether one wishes this wonder nor no.  They hold no dreams nor intent, only a blind pulling at the hand.  If you lose your fun you wait for your whore to disappear through the clouds to the land of whose place is mine?  You would like more flotation of imagining you’re free.  Your friend waits at the corner holding more balloons for you and me.  Smiling as will be.

Sire my sire.  Oh but no more fun shall receive my glance?  Twilight’s light abright my colors shall dance.

Kooky wizard of childhood curiosity.  Special shall be special.  Nothing more.  When the balloons sail off and carry their grip to lands of bountiful bouncers twisters of tiddlywinks towards the dawn of spreading serendipity deplore, nothing more shall touch thee with such a charm as he.  Befuddlement confounds surrounds abounds supplying a flying figurine of where shall one see what’s seen of where however never more.  Fairy sparkles of this sprinkled sparkles still majestically tickled by pleasure.  Pleasure slides through shoots of vision of shores with shells of scenes of what’s seen so never more slipping towards songs of sixpence sickly serpents singing through sillyful sensation.  Under broader sliding of your soul sinking wonder where safety lies if such does not defy.

Sappy Sam.  All’s fun is fun is good nature why shall one wonder where lies silently distressing wherever one may be.  Freedom frequents stimulate my smiles.

Oh boy however where you may be of wishing beyond the purpose of those balloons occasional but not so much never more.  Sickly fragments of sliding vision interplay through streets of decay.  Distress strolls through deformation of the darling disfortunate soul.  Roll over flip among daisies of despair into broken crackly leaves taking the grip into fractured panes of broken carnage  crunching around the touch of the shattered balloon taking too far of too many balloons shaky memories of shakes of sicks of broken grips of scores of balloons held without pride of responsibility of grip and color of your wisdom.

Shaky spanky sir silly of your cranky.  The clown is innocent.  The clown merely stands on the corner giving us balloons and smiles.  No more.

Kid.  You’re not listening.  The clown has no power.  The balloons do no more than make you weightless.  Freedom is fun, but can you fly?