Hardly a flimsy turning into dust

They say the pain is where the light gets in, but I’ve seen idiots waving kippers in the dark where no light could ever get in. Yes, I’ve seen a lot of things of pain, but waving kippers in the dark has to be the biggest pain of all, most especially when the one doing it is the best we’ve got to lead us out of darkness.

Image by Michael Strobel from Pixabay

I had a little bit of cheese stashed away in the fridge

For emergencies like

Went looking for it tonight, and found it missing

Hmmm, there is a cheese robber around me thinks

I will now go looking for the cheese robber.

Bye bye…

Image by lipefontes0 from Pixabay

It’s that time of day again

When my thoughts turn into dust

And float all around me.

Sometimes it feels like, it’s always that time of day.

Image by Vasilijus Bortnikas from Pixabay

Got a smoke filled dream for you

To make things travel backwards in time:

And move faster into the future

And feeling that you’re standing still.

But if you can’t do that then learn to whistle.

I mean, you can imagine that, can’t you

Whistling in the smoke filled dream?

Image by kordula vahle from Pixabay

I have begun listening to Agnes

She plays a nice clock

And reads books in love that come to her on her shore

With every wave of her breath

Until I can do nothing but love her

In the wave filled dreams.

Image by Виктория Бородинова from Pixabay

You know, I used to go into these gangsta clubs and get some kind of drink from them, and then go sit at a table of one just out of the light, but not too far into the dark.

Taking out my notebook, I’d begin writing for all I was worth, every time.

I tell you, there's nothing like taking out your notebook and writing in it to bring the gangstas close.

Looking up at them crowding near I wondered what they wanted poking their nose so close into my space like wounded hound dogs who’ve lost every race and were now coming to lose their next one.

So I’d say to them: fuck off and let me write you fucking gangstas.

They always mooched away then, back to their lipid drinks and whatever they were pumping before they saw me.

And then I thought: this will be the era of my hippie days one day, where I got lost a lot and played poker with every hand I was dealt with, and wrote it all into my notebook, forever.

Image by Gerd Altmann from Pixabay

I was becoming smoke filled in every breath and staring at things, to see if they were really there or not, and if they weren’t, then where was I?

When I found myself staring at many things like some frog croaking and breathing out smoke I began to lose my mind even more and god save the queen, cos I aint.

In my hollowed out confessions I came across many measurements that looked like confusions at first glance until I saw the postmark and then knew that they were beyond me and I’m going to bed to read a good book.

Jumping into a learning curve a small square later I heard: kippers, kippers anyone.

It was not what I was expecting to hear; but what the fuck, beggars can’t be choosers.

Holding out my hands for the kippers I reached out and heard: Sweetpea…x equals Samsara

Image by Enrique Meseguer from Pixabay

A day or two after the full moon was eclipsing, I was in the garden again, a little bit like a lover in suspense and going through the motions to be heard, as if I had an ear I could talk out of.

Yes, I know, clandestine in the rendezvous and only found by those who have the secret code.

Feeling terribly thin I asked if anyone had any hope to spare from all my peeping places when I saw over in the corner the practice worm crawling out of the shadows of who I was and making whoopee in the dust.

I couldn’t growl this in the back row enough to be heard; and so made my appearance in the front row a while later and fooling, fooling. Who was I, and where am I dead when?

I was the secret mission in the wave filled dreams.

I was philosophical.

I was my most trouble.

And now I’m almost blue thinking about it all, a heart feeling its own pain in the terribly tough, a rough square; a notion that is hardly a flimsy turning into dust…

Image by Iván Tamás from Pixabay

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