How we set to sea

The tide is high and so are we

We had a lot of Kake and we are lost at sea


Now we are on a boat, who knows if we will come back? Who kno-ows?!

IDA ENTITY:
We went to the toilet for a little pee
FANNY:
Then we had a line or two, or twenty three

ALL:
Now we are on a boat, who knows if we will come back? Who kno-ows?!

The tide is high and so are we 
We had a lot of Kake and we are lost at sea

Lost at sea…..

VIAGRA FALLS:
I hope that all this Kake won’t make me feel sea sick
COLLAPSELLA:
I hope we find a pirate with a massive dick

ALL:
Now we are on a boat, who knows if we will come back? Who kno-ows?! 

The tide is high and so are we
We had a lot of Kake and we are lost at sea

Lot of Kake, lost at sea

CHERYL:
We could find a treasure full of gold, gleamin’
ALL:
Or we find a ship that’s full of strong seamen

Now we are on a boat, who know if we will come back? Who kno-ows?!

The tide is high and so are we
We had a lot of Kake and we are lost at sea
Lot of Kake, lost at sea

Song »The Tide Is High And So Are We«, original Song »The Tide Is High« by Blondie, Lyrics by Alex Lee, performed by Cheryl, Viagra, Ida Entity, Collapsella and Fanny, The Real Housewives of Neukölln, Trash Drag Show ‘Frrruity #2’, at Rosis Bar, 27 May 2017


exhibitionism exercise:
take off shoes
take off shirt
take off cube
take off worth
take off rank
take off blank
take off stage
take of cage
take off quotes
take off dope
take off time
showtime

Exhibitionism exercise, by Augustin Maurs (2017)

The behavoir of us during the storm

Viagra:
Come on, fuck me on a boat

Let’s go and bone on the sea

Hey there, fuck me on a boat

Put your seamen in me

I’ll spread my legs on that boat

I’ll take good care of your mast

Go on, put it down my throat

Weigh anchor in my ass

I’ll ride until dawn
‘
Till every sailor is gone

All aboard boys, get on that boat

And on that boat, pound home

Hurry, fuck me on a boat
Come get in line for this meat

I’m into it all, you know: bring the whole of the fleet

Sail into my harbour boys

Offload your goods on my shore

Don’t stop, do it harder, boys

I’m your nautical whore

I’ll ride until dawn
‘
Till every sailor is gone

All aboard boys, get on that boat

All aboard boys, get on that boat

Massive dicks fore and aft
I gotta work the shaft

All inhibitions are gone
I’m a big ho, gonna moan

On a boat, until dawn

Song »Fuck Me On a Boat«, Lyrics by Alex Lee, performed by Viagra, The Real Housewives of Neukölln, Trash Drag Show ‘Frrruity #2, at Rosis Bar, 27 May 2017.


Cheryl:
You think I’m pretty when I have my glasses on
You think I’m funny when I sing my lyrics wrong
I really love that you don’t have a dick, you’ve a tail (a tail)
When I first met you, you weren’t such an easy sell
A half-fish person who had a peculiar smell
But now you’ve got me trapped under your Merman spell (Merman spell)

Let’s go to the beach tonight
We can skip foreplay
Can’t believe this is my life
I’m in love with a god damn Merman!

You make me feel like I’m living a Sea Queen Dream
The way you fuck me with your fish peen
Just stick it in and don’t ever pull out (don’t ever pull out)
I get wet when you look at me
Just one shove and baby I’m complete
This is real , so stick it in and don’t ever pull out (don’t ever pull out)

Who knew a tail could be so much fun in the sack?
My key to pleasure must be a two-pronged attack
Now I’m addicted, it’s like your aquatic crack (crack)

Let’s go to the beach tonight
We can skip foreplay
Can’t believe this is my life
I’m in love with a god damn Merman!

You make me feel like I’m living a Sea Queen Dream
The way you fuck me with your fish peen
Just stick it in and don’t ever pull out (don’t ever pull out)
I get wet when you look at me
Just one shove and baby I’m complete
This is real, so stick it in and don’t ever pull out (don’t ever pull out)

Boy you get my heart racing when your tail’s in me
it’s my Sea Queen Dream tonight
Let you put your tail in me till you spray your fish seed
it’s my Sea Queen Dream tonight

Song »Sea Queen Dream» (to the tune of »Teenage Dream» by Katy Perry), Lyrics by Jake Indiana, performed by Cheryl, The Real Housewives of Neukölln, Trash Drag Show ‘Frrruity #2,at Rosis Bar, 27 May 2017.


I sing thy praise, Iacchus,
    Who with thy thyrse dost thwack us:
    And yet thou so dost back us
    With boldness, that we fear
    No Brutus ent'ring here,
    Nor Cato the severe.
    What though the lictors threat us,
    We know they dare not beat us,
    So long as thou dost heat us.
    When we thy orgies sing,
    Each cobbler is a king,
    Nor dreads he any thing:
    And though he do not rave,
    Yet he'll the courage have
    To call my Lord Mayor knave;
    Besides, too, in a brave,
    Although he has no riches,
    But walks with dangling breeches
    And skirts that want their stitches,
    And shows his naked flitches,
    Yet he'll be thought or seen
    So good as George-a-Green;
    And calls his blouze, his queen;
    And speaks in language keen.
    O Bacchus! let us be
    From cares and troubles free;
    And thou shalt hear how we
    Will chant new hymns to thee.

Poem by Robert Herrick, Poem No.772. »A Hymn to 
Bacchus«, THE HESPERIDES and NOBLE NUMBERS (1635)
.

How sobriety is anatomized and described to us by a bar goer

As for the inward parts of Sobriety, said the bar goer; his brain is in bigness, colours, substance, and strength, much like the left ball of a flesh-worm.
The ventricles of his said brain,like an oil auger

The worm-like excrescence, like a tennis racket.

The membranes, like an massage hat.

The funnel, like an ambient umbrella.

The fornix, like a ice bucket.

The glandula pinealis, like a latitude doorbell.

The rete mirabile, like a pair of BeatsX’s.

The dug-like processus, like a stress ball.

The tympanums, like a smartfan.

The rocky bones, a microfiber duster.

The nape of the neck, like a paper bag.

The nerves, like a thermo pot.

The uvula, like a car alarm.

The palate, like a pair of terrain muttons.

The spittle,like eye drops.

The almonds, like google glass.

The bridge of his nose, like an industrial robot.

The head of the larynx, like an online shopping bag.

The kidneys, like carabiner hooks.

The loins, like a magnetic locking system.

The ureters, like a pet bottle.

The emulgent veins, like swish.

The spermatic vessels, like cully-mully-puff.

The parastata, like a keypad.

The bladder, like a rifle.

The neck, like an identity card.

The mirach, or lower parts of the belly, like Focusbuster.

The siphach, or its inner rind, like a fitbit.

The muscles, like a kitchen scale.

The tendons, like a vitality glowcap.

The stomach, like a belly burner belt.

The pylorus, like a citalopram.

The windpipe, like an e-cigarette.

The throat, like a cleaning cloth.

The lungs, like razors.

The heart, like a wallet.

The mediastine, like trackR pen.

The pleura, like like a connected car.

The arteries, like a RFID.

The midriff, like a spring.

The liver, like a GPS.

The veins, like optical character recognition.

The spleen, like a smart fridge.

The guts, like a tablet.

The gall, like a night-vision camera.

The entrails, like a spreadsheet.

The mesentery, like a battery case.

The hungry gut, like a pocket knife.

The blind gut, like a radar.

The colon, like a accelerometer.

The arse-gut, like a dust bin.

The ligaments, like a dating app.

The bones, like low-fat cakes.

The marrow, like disposable paper cups.

The cartilages, like a gyroscope.

The glandules in the mouth,like a drone.

The animal spirits, like an alarm clock.

The blood-fermenting, like a shower calendar.

The urine, like a parrot.

The sperm, like a soylent drink.

And his nurse told me, that being married to Sobriety, he only begot a good
number of local adverbs and certain double fasts.

His memory he had like a scarf.
His common sense, like a buzzing of bees.

His imagination, like a white sheet.

His thoughts, like task manager.

His conscience, like a shark. 

His deliberations, whole grain wheat flakes.

His repentance, like a spy software.
His undertakings, like a workout routine.

His understanding, like three nuts on a dish.

His notions, like snails crawling out of strawberries.
His will, like three nuts on a dish.
His desire, like a self driven car.
His judgement, like a soft slipper.

His discretion, like an empty glove.
His reason, like a cricket.

A continuation of sobriety’s countenance

This a wonderful thing, continued the bar goer, to hear and see the state of Sobriety.
If he spat, it was basketfuls of Screaming Eagle Cabernet

If he blew his nose, it was salted Margarita.

If he wept, it was Berliner Kindle

If he trembled, it was rum punch

If he sweated, it was Absinthe

If he belched, it was Sparkling wine

If he sneezed, it was half beer, half milk.
If he coughed, it was Jägermeister and mayonnaise.

If he sobbed, it was Cardbordeux

If he yawned, it was bottles full of bourbon

If he sighed, it was Berliner Pilsner

If he whistled, it was hods full of fairy-tells

If he snored, it was bucketsful of Weinbrand with cola.

If he frowned, it was Strothmann Weizenkorn 
When he spoke, it was far from being that crimson silk out of which Parysatis wanted whoever spoke to her son Cyrus, King of the Persiens, to weave his words. What it was, was coarse Auvergne frieze.

If he blew, it was boxes for indulgences

If he blinked his eyes, it was waffles and wafers.

If he grumbled, it was a March-born cat.

If he nodded his head, it was iron-bound wagons. 

If he pouted, it was broken staves.

If he mumbled, it was the law clerks’ pantomime.

If he stamped his foot, it was postponements and five years adjournments.

If he stepped back, it was a pile of broken glass

If he slobbered, it was bar permits
If he was hoarse, it was an entry of the dancers

If he farted, it was brown cow-hide gaiters.

If he pooped, it was Cordova-leather shoes

If he scratched himself, it was new regulations

If he sang, it was a glass of vodka dropped into a glass of beer.

If he shat, it was toadstools and morels.

If he puffed, it was fermented cabbage

If he made a speech, it was last year’s snows.

If he worried, it was for the bald and the shaven alike

If he gave nothing to the tailor, the embroiderer did no better.

If he woolgathered, it was of members flying and creeping up walls.

If he dreamt, it was of mortgage deeds.

Text modified by Annika Larsson, Original text Rabelais, François (ca 1494-1553): The histories of Gargantua and Pantagruel by François Rabelais ; translated Translated into English by Sir Thomas Urquhart (1653), pg.285-286.


How we, being at sea, heard various unfrozen words

When we were at sea, junketting, tippling, discoursing, and telling stories, a bar-goer rose and stood up to look out; then asked us, Do you hear nothing, friends? Me thinks I hear some people talking in the air, yet I can see nobody. Listen! According to her command we listened, and with full ears sucked in the air as some of you suck oysters, to find if we could hear some sound scattered through the sky; and to lose none of it, like the Emperor Antoninus some of us laid their hands hollow next to their ears; but all this would not do, nor could we hear any voice. Yet the bar-goer continued to assure us she heard various voices in the air, some of men, and some of women. At last we began to fancy that we also heard something, or at least that our ears tingled; and the more we listened, the plainer we discerned the voices, so as to distinguish articulate sounds. This mightily frightened us, and not without cause; since we could see nothing, yet heard such various sounds and voices of men, women, children, horses &c., insomuch that another bar-goer cried out, Cods-belly, there is no fooling with the devil; we are all beshit, let’s fly. There is some Ambuscado hereabouts. Let’s fly. Let’s whip it away. Let’s fly and save our bacon.
The first, hearing the sad outcry which the other bar-guest made, said, Who talks of flying? Let’s first see who they are; perhaps they may be friends. We can discover nobody yet, though we can see a hundred miles round us. But let’s consider a little. We have read that a philosopher named Petron was of opinion that there were several worlds that touched each other in an equilateral triangle; in whose centre, he said, was the dwelling of truth; and that the words, ideas, copies, and images of all things past and to come resided there; round which was the age; and that with success of time part of them used to fall on mankind like rheums and mildews, just as the dew fell on Gideon’s fleece, till the age was fulfilled.
We also remember, continued we, that Aristotle affirms Homer’s words to be flying, moving, and consequently animated. Besides, Antiphanes said that Plato’s philosophy was like words which, being spoken in some country during a hard winter, are immediately congealed, frozen up, and not heard; for what Plato taught young lads could hardly be understood by them when they were grown old. Now, continued we, we should philosophise and search whether this be not the place where those words are thawed.

Text modified by Annika Larsson, original text Rabelais, François (ca 1494-1553): The histories of Gargantua and Pantagruel by François Rabelais ; translated into English by Sir Thomas Urquhart (1653), pg. 343-345.


How among the frozen words we found some odd ones 

Here, here, said the bar-goer, here are some that are not yet thawed. She then threw us on the floor whole handfuls of frozen words, which seemed to us like your rough sugar-plums, of many colours, like those used in heraldry; some words gules (this means also jests and merry sayings), some vert, some azure, some black, some or (this means also fair words); and when we had somewhat warmed them between our hands, they melted like snow, and we really heard them, but could not understand them, for it was a barbarous gibberish. One of them only, that was pretty big, having been warmed between our’s hands, gave a sound much like that of chestnuts when they are thrown into the fire without being first cut, which made us all start. This was the report of a field-piece in its time, cried a bar-goer.
Another bar-goer prayed her to give him some more; but she told him that to give words was the part of a lover. Sell me some then, I pray you, cried he. That’s the part of a lawyer, returned she. I would sooner sell you silence, though at a dearer rate; as Demosthenes formerly sold it by the means of his argentangina, or silver squinsy.
However, she threw three or four handfuls of them on the floor; among which we perceived some very sharp words, and some bloody words, which the bar-tender said used sometimes to go back and recoil to the place whence they came, but it was with a slit weasand. We also saw some terrible words, and some others not very pleasant to the eye.
When they had been all melted together, we heard a strange noise, hin, hin, hin, hin, his, tick, tock, taack, bredelinbrededack, frr, frr, frr, bou, bou, bou, bou, bou, bou, bou, bou, track, track, trr, trr, trr, trrr, trrrrrr, on, on, on, on, on, on, ououououon, gog, magog

Text modified by Annika Larsson, Original text Rabelais, François (ca 1494-1553): The histories of Gargantua and Pantagruel by François Rabelais ; translated into English by Sir Thomas Urquhart (1653), pg. 346-347.


vibrato exercise 
say wa
sway wa
sing wa
say wa wa 
sing we 
swing we
sing wawewawewawe

…of the Noise we heard

(…H-E-E-R-R-E-E-’S…H-E-L-L-O-O-O-O……H-E-E-R-R-E-E-’S…H-E-L-L-O-O-O-O…)

Hey…Spank-Fuckwheat & AlFuckya
Hey…AbFuck & Fuckstello.
Hey…WilFuckma, Fuck, BetFuttyFuck’n-ArneyUck.
Hey…Nort’n-Trick-Fucksie-RalphFuck
Hey…MurphFuck-Illigan’s-Fuck-Alloping Ouurmet, Fulia Child, 
Joyce Frothers,
The Fockra WinFuck Show, Peter Fuck as Fuckalombolo-Fuck,
Mutual of Fuckahas Wild Fuckdom, The Carol Fuckner Show, Ob-
NewFuck, L.A. Fuck, 
Ed Fuckivan, Lawrence Fuck…m-i-Fuck…k-e-Fuck…
FuckFuckFuckFuckFuuuuck.

Hey…Clar-Fuck-Kent-Uper-Man-Fuck-Ois-ane……Uck.
Hey…Petticoat Fucktion, The Fucky Bunch, Fuck In The Fuckily, My
Childern…Fuck’em All!!!
My-Mister-Fucker’s-Neighbor-Hoo-Fuckname Street, Magilla Fuckilla,
Fu-peed Racer.
Fockeye, Hey…Olive FuckOyl, Fruto, Captain JackFuck’s Funny,
Fucker Fudd,
Forky Fig, Fucky The Menace, Fuck The Fuck Cosby Show, Different
Fucks, Fuck Squad,
Fuck Search, Star Fuck-The Fuck Generation, Sixty Fuckits, The Six
O’Clock Fuck.

Hey…Dan Ra-Fuckather, Fuck Eutell, Fairy Tong-Urrent-Af-Fuck-Air,
Eter-Fuckings, Ted Fockell,
Fabra-Falter-Falter-Fucktite, Felix The Fuck, The Fuck Is Right, Let’s
Make A Fuck,
Fuckanne Fuckannadanna, H.R. PuffenFuck, RomperFuck-aFooby-
Dooby-Fuckoo,
The Fuckship Of Eddie’s Fucker, Darren TabaFuckAntha Stevens, My
Three Fucks,
I Fuck Of Eanie’s Fuckshop, Eople-’s-Ourt-Ivorce-
Roop…Hey-Hey-We’re Fuck-Onkies.

Hey…Curly, Moe & Fucky
Hey!

Poem »Mission Fuckin Impossible« by Edwin Torres. Source: Algarin, Miguel/Holman, Bob Aloud, Voices from the Nuyorican Poets Cafe, Henry Holt and Company Inc., New York (1994).


Through me many long dumb voices,
Voices of the interminable generation of prisoners and slaves,
Voices of the diseased and despairing and of thieves and dwarfs,
Voices of cycles of preparation and accretion,
And of the threads that connect the stars, and of wombs and of the father-stuff,
And of the rights of them the others are down upon,
Of the deform'd, trivial, flat, foolish, despised,
Fog in the air, beetles rolling balls of dung.

Through me forbidden voices,
Voices of sexes and lusts, voices veiled and I remove the veil,
Voices indecent by me clarified and transfigured.

I do not press my fingers across my mouth,
I keep as delicate around the bowels as around the head and heart,
Copulation is no more rank to me than death is.

I believe in the flesh and the appetites,
Seeing, hearing, feeling, are miracles, and each part and tag of me is a miracle.

Poem »Song of Myself« by Walt Whitman (1855).
 Pg. 287-290