If you're going to ask me what this one is about, don't bother...
Of course things change, but don’t they take forever to do so; anyway, Kafka’s shoe was lying in the corner over by the saddest part of his day that was not quite emancipated enough in its attrition and although close there was more to be presented before the time came to close up shop once again and call it something else.
The vast empire of his dreaming was a cage he would be free from, and so bit by bit he was untying the cords of attachment that kept him prisoner in his own beliefs.
When nude mustard gas billowed up the street, a voice shouted out: “Hoy; you down there; climb out of that tomb, why don’t you?”
To which the reply was a long piece of nothing that interrupted Kafka’s dream for a moment.
Nobody said a thing more so the story carried on into the future that was not making a lot of reason to carry on, but on looking up saw a sign that said: We are all dancing machines under the huge sky.
This of course didn’t go very far with Kafka buried so deep, but it did cause a stir in the grain-relief making up the numbers for the suits to expand even more.
A machine on the edge of obscurity was recording it all in its ones and zeroes and came up with not a lot to report yet, that made any difference anyway, and so carried on forever whirring.
“Turn left,” said the empty barrel of defeat from its hiding place in the day so huge.
When a wake-up call over-easy fell through the mail box a day late the sound of: “All hands to the pumps,” went up, but the idea was an old one and so fell on deaf ears that were part surrendered yet well versed in the ‘knowledges’ which never seem to make a heap of difference for the knowing, but hey, a belief is a belief so may as well carry on until the cows come home, right?
“So into the nails we came, trudging for all we were worth in the copyists propaganda with our sails up to spread the word but thinking all the time to change gods for the ones we prayed to were too mean for us to ever enter the lilac stream of the story that was notional and as prerogative as the flight of the hippie in the first person version that seemed to come from somewhere else to say: ‘we are recovering from something else, but forget what now in the mire soft of the transformational fixes of the openings still open from yesterday’s airs for a taste for life,” said the ghosts in all their yesterdays.
But the advanced difference of the change was creeping over Kafka slowly and was causing him to feel exhausted if he moved in any direction. The location of this tiredness was perplexing deep in his soul, and so for want of an explanation he set about the extirpation of what led him there.
But Kafka was long buried in his soul and hadn’t a clue any more what was true north or twelve o clock of the compass, in fact, all the wheels had been spun and not one had returned to normal with a glass of wine to say, it was alright to carry on. This had left him with a feeling that up was down and in was out so that he didn’t know if he was coming or going; so he lay back and watched the show happen around him.
Bag-eye on the other hand was marching to his destiny feet first and had big things on his mind that would explain everything to make it all alright again, or so he thought.
Sometime later in another place where the birds were waking up, a hastily delivered letter said: “yeah, I know, you’re a stranger at the barbed wire fence. Well there’s no changing rooms in the thoughts that can swallow you whole and leave you stranded where you come from to fly so high; and you’ll pay and pay until they leave you bargaining for what they can never give you that would make any difference. In that dark place of a long drive nowhere you tell yourself so many things, but when you drive back you’ll bleed through your nose and tell yourself you’ve done it again one more time, more than you ever thought you would.
When the invisible man walked into sight everyone looked at him.
“There he is,” they said.
“Oow,” they said.
The invisible man was on a shoe-string and so kept right on going.
Many huge men, lost behind closed doors were lumbering through the mist of their lives in dissonance to their ergonomically thought up plans and so missed the ghost that was hiding behind a large invisible handkerchief that it was holding up before it as it glided from place to place with barely a moan to say: “what have I got to lose?”
Poets scrawled on the pavements of their beliefs, all looking to the sky for validation or something else that can never be said, and of course they made no more sense than a taste for life would allow them.
If you were to approach one from the wrong direction a growl would rise up from out of their excitation to offer you the public images and then laugh like a nail-gun on glue, or a shoe on fire and say: “she’s nude mustard in the lilac stream.”
To which the comment would come: “and what are you then?”
“Oh, I’m a lip reader and I’ve come to read the meter.”
Image from Pixabay