I wrote another page of blues, and then put my pen away. Time for a snack…
…
Sometimes the night goes by in one-liners that mean hardly a thing in passing yet are said anyway in the passing. Oh, oh, the terrible ideas that keep coming and passing…
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A grass snake without a clue was bathing in the sun, and going: puh, puh, puh at everything I was saying. So I changed my tack and came about; after all, I knew how to dance.
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Girls were playing their guitars all over the place, and I felt, irradiated.
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The band gathered pace, and as they segued into the next song I counted my change to see how much I had left and just knew that the machine didn’t do dyslexic. So I counted my blues and shook out the plot.
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Imprinted from every experience I’d ever had I pushed on to have some more while I was still alive and did something pretty primitive on all the walls that came along to stop me that ran down into the gully and became a rainbow.
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There is nothing that can cage me so like circles I thought as I fell into the next dream.
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And then another page of nothing came at me wearing frills. And dancing around me became another leaf falling from the tree and drinking my wine.
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You can read me after midnight in any afternoon at the library when the weather gets too cold and I can’t carry on anymore, I said. But if your eyes are too bright, I’ll see you on the edge of the world where I would be; my satellite, shining on the go.
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Ten past another hour came and blew a hole in the table just because he didn’t like my dog. I grew mushrooms about this and fried them up in a blanket that I threw over him to quieten him down; and then pulled out my gun to give him a frown.
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Grabbing me by my gun hand, another page of nothing came to be no more than this: that nothing comes from nothing no matter how many bullets you’ve got.
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Calligraphy of souls to be interpreted began to burn me down until I turned into blue and green and orange.
And then I had to stare into their eyes, and played a tune for every one of them.
Well, I can dance, you know. Anyway, letterbox 23 was groaning again, so I went to see what was happening this time…
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A kiss on the wind was blowing its way to me, so I sat down to wait for it to appear and do its thing and thought many things. Suddenly, blown in on the wind, was the double of all my troubles; and came the girl carrying her piano and a violin trio, wound up with all the money.
What kind of kiss is this I thought?
I let them do what they wanted as I found my way towards London in England somehow with a rucksack on my back and a half formed dream that kept imprinting itself upon my mind over and over until I caught the wrong train, and didn’t know it until I got out a long way from where I wanted to be.
Oh, the pain, the pain. Drat.
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Walking the empty beach so full I came upon myself, and said nothing.
...
I took a sip of water in my desert prison of utopia; and after blowing bubbles for a while, I gave up on pretending. So I dialled for emergency services but could get no answer.
Oh….
It was here that shit-face said I had a private call from some café I couldn’t remember, and blew me a dream of something I didn’t want.
And really, at that moment, I could think of nothing else.
And of all the things that I didn’t want that were so many; and of all the things that I did want that rose to heaven praying for our lost souls, none was I most proud of, than you that rose out of slavery, even for a brief moment. I applaud you.
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