Skywriting

A small exercise… Just start writing the first idea that pops into your head then keep on going without worrying about order or meaning… Then have fun trying to make sense of it all…      

The cool ones are out and the festive shades of the bristle sprouts conveniently step on the mushroom tops.

Our heads are shaven and clean, we sit under roses and gleam at the table tops, gleam at the merchant’s carts, wondering if existence can be sold and bought.

The equator is full of lose headed goats that never cross over to open up the doors of their happy homes, they have such happy homes, places to eat, and children to take care of, never a wonder and never a thought as to evils that we currently bath in.

No, no, no more tears from you, you don’t have to win to lose, or was it lose to win? Truly it has nothing to do with the matter, experience is clear when nothing at all matters, because nothing is ever truly at principle and no topic is ever crudely inapprehensible, because in the end it evaporates into nothing.  

The eye opens and the parcel gives itself a quick thrust shut, now he is free to tamper with his soul.

He is free to regain a doubt of consciousness, a double standard, a trick of trick-less ability into the mind of a noble heart stead, thus the wind blows and the diamonds glow, with a radiance not far from that radiance discovered in the hostile battlefields of the broken minds which for take further anguish than the broken hearts. He whispers into his wife’s ear, a farewell, a distant going, no longer will he sit and sip his glass of vodka, his glass of rum, no more will he partake in the inhalation of any sort of illegal substance.

The man took pride in his decision, and felt a cold shiver run down his spine, if consciousness was coming, then what was leaving, for there must always be something for nothing is never as simple as an unheated stove, an uncooked fish, or a slaughtered village of Eskimo children.

The pride he felt was not one that was admirable to any other human but himself, no other soul could appreciate the dexterity of his plan, the sheer cunning of his actions. He took the last bottle of Scotch from the liquor cabinet and with much theatrical showmanship, tossed it into the canal forgetting its existence, and recalling his own.

The last bus rode off into the sunset leaving behind it a trail of bundled babies, each rolling out from under the bumper of the large vehicle. The babies would cry and yelp but no pedestrian would so much as turn a back to face the sea of infants, all was forgotten in this town, no soul was more important than any other important less being, nobody was better and nobody was worse, because nobody was.

Such a selfish life should be put to death, thought the pastor, but he was in turn taken to the highest hill of the town and tossed down several times, after being beaten by the town stompers, with huge boots of reeking glory, boots that put to shame the devilish heels of the mythological protectors of holy mountains, the boots stomped on the pastor’s face and left a mess of a man, after this he was taken by the balls and swung round and round then launched into space by the most burly villager known to date.

So the town was witness to a catastrophic event, the slaughter of innocent infants and they could not care, they could not give reason to hold any sort of town meeting to arrange for the tiny bundles to be adopted, or even buried properly, they were instead simply made into cobblestones for the roads. Such was the nature of man; such was the nature of woman. Ticking away the thoughts of glory, ticking away the wondrous joys once taken for granted now left simply as a modification to something that once was stones brought only to be stepped on. These at least carry resonance that still warns the just of a just less situation in a just less town.