Many 'ITS' chew.
Many 'ITS' become plural possessives.
One 'IT' says: "My Hubble telescope's the biggest".
Another 'it' blows it out ---"poof". The Hubble bubble flattens like a wet condom.
Blows, pummels, slaps and torn collars.
Violence of goodness- knows -what!
'IT'S' (plural possessive) divert their attention.
All the 'IT'S' spit and spit their 'IT''S' into sloppy dung- brownie laterite.
Many 'IT'S' stick into each other-each other sticking, crowding, till big 'It' birthed.
The birthed 'IT" is spitty and assorted- lives on the ground, the necro-hydra-headed miniature 'IT'.
Its possessions are many saliva coatings, DNA's of mix- Syro-malabarian, Jewish Aryan, Mugal Islamian, Muslim-Dravidian, Parsi Indian, Thomas Christianians, English Indian, and many more as castes, sub castes and mixed castes.
It is feeling groggy, crumbly, heavy as burdened Kafka's metaphoric insect, unbearably oppressed as Camus's Sissyphus. Groaning as tiny loudspeakers, 'It' starts to become alive with all the mixed DNA's of races, origins, cultures, of legacies of the invaded, desirous mixing of blood, coming in unceasingly as wave after wave through the shores of the all embracing Arabian, coming in as, stealth, loot, plunder & heritage, through the mystic passes of the Khyber, hanging precariously as passages over the snowy mistletoe-druids of the Hindukush.
'IT" groans thunderously out of an unimagined burden that hasan IT-ancestry with loathing and liking, quite similar to wails of the banshee, quite traumatic as existential comics of other well known's, like Camu, Kafka & Sartre, and perhaps quite ridiculous as Cervantes' Donquizzsought.
The jagged savages called homely Westerns (ghats), mountains of the West Coast are unable to interpret the wailing, whining and tempest of 'IT' the little.
They-the West Coast mountains hear something-as tiny as a raindrop.
"Can't you, 'noble savages,' lend me at least a tiniest space of hearing?" 'Cant' you?'-bemoans it.
The mountains interpret this as some unusual miniature beast, unnoticeable, unspeakable, unmentionableall the 'uns' making sounds, similar to the crackling of pappadams when they sizzle in oil.
They speak in silences of their reflection: "What the Houdini is happening there? It is not that elephant- beetle, bug that destroys virgin coconut tree. Then what must it be?"
To make matters worse for 'it' -the wave of Arabian sea hooves, crash louder than the tempest of Shakespeare, plunging the water- drenched coast, mixing on its shores, shells, dead fish, carcasses, and even a rotten underwear, torn by the salt and the spume - increasing tempo as frenzy goddesses dancing through the night.
It the spit ball, gum ball feels the beginning of consciousness in him-a total conscious of spit-ball-gumball-wellbeing.
Suddenly there is wailing sirens and the flashing red and blues. A roaring jeep with labels marked on it as: 'Police' and below it: 'Polite but Firm' in smaller bolds are making lot of feet run in scattered directions.
The Spit Ball 'IT", is jittered with the sounds of human traffic. Crazy running feet of aged and young whores, followed by equally desirous and scandalous feet, followed by little feet of roadside marijuana sellers, followed by the feet of the underworld-trading local Rupees with Dollars and Euros. All of them trample 'it', like WW2 blitzkrieg of Poland, making it squeak out in tiny massacring proportions.
It is feeling the last bit of multiple DNA's being sucked on to the M. Are.F. tires of the hurtling, acceleration mad, 'Polite but Firm', jeep.
It is feeling now like a rubbery skull, flattened to pulp as a pastiche of crime, law and order. It feels its body opening, very scholarly as figuration-as pulpy pastiches, fictions and tropes, opening like an eye in a tropical cyclone, opening like a fantastic seed called magical realism, opening as a crevice through which haloes squeeze through in saintly devotion, opening further into the imagination of 'IT'-signified's like 'IT" -language as foul and swear spots. 'IT' feels those fair and foul spots wanting to be traced…It whimpers clucks- offended deeply by their uncouthness, and covers it -figures of speech like the three monkeys in ancient fables, who see no evil, hear no evil & speak no evil.
The protean mix of tropes fill 'IT'S' vagino- subaltern-marginal imagination of manyness as a mix of mainstream imagination, as superficiality, spiritualism, gossip, culture, history as renaissance art of Botticelli, creating an organ of Venus from the ocean, and thinking of it figuratively as mystical third eye of the Orient.
'IT' feels giggly in the 'IT' foaming hots… By lo! A genie called genieology rises up like a towering colossus with a huge lamp of called troubled -spots of the World, and shouts with the seismic of voice.
"Enough of this Botticelli-'IT'. Here, let me rub my genieological lamp of wisdom called troubled spots and meta-hypno-transmute you".
It starts feeling the thaumaturgy of 'IT'-(chi)ness; body miniature 'IT" starts wobbling sensationally, dramatologically; 'IT" feels the becoming into a 'sight of writing images'… of an 'IT'-pulp of tropes… tropes making 'IT' feel like a banana without bananas, making 'IT" feel like vulvas of non figurative hexes.
'IT' exclaims the spiritualization of 'ITness' into a wailing cacophonic sigh, romantic and classicist in Catharsis, and then negates the sighing as the theatre of unsure phonics, and then writes the 'scriptemes'-novel strips of writing, foamed within the language of writing.
In doing this: 'IT' does not condemn the langue and parole of phonic speech. It borrows the humble parole of speech, a phonic speech and scripts it with a signifier as 'Scriptemes'-i.e. graphemes taken out to writing.
'IT' realizes the there is an 'IT' purpose of traveling around the world as 'IT' fictions, traveling, as 'ontology', stuck to footwear as an ontology of 'quzzics', as a anybody-nobody-all-body-somebody.