-Unless less siphons to more, more or less, then all of them
are out of it.
-Time?
-I would it were so, but for the time it would take to
believe it were is a ploy not from above.
-Not like business as such usually suits.
-Or as likely it were so, strictly during business time.
-As I see what I do not, for a most unpleasant taste arrives
as-is.
-Or it is as its "is" is an "is-not."
-No.
-Not a word as a yes would never do.
-Ever the time it plucks a real live doll from the clam
house.
-And not the world’s clam, too.
-As any shucked oyster might tell.
-In that sneaky place where the good lord split us all,
perhaps a moan suffices?
-Not a place’s claim to lay, as it weren’t, and the bold
traces of a skysail’s wind e’er do show the lost the loneliest way to golly about
their lollygagging business, as per the unusual escapades of what do show faces
less than worth saving.
-Or do they not, or just not?
-Just. What a solipsistic belch to wrangle to the sawdust
with the stench of. A narcissistic proposition snared in a preposition’s bind. And
do justice’s mirrors show what’s just, or what just is? Just being the margin’s
right to be out, with or without wit, ended touched just a touch with just’s
minor wrongs. Just? I pray differently from the norm, if the norm’s just is as
you tell it.
-I tell none but what is, as just or not, allowed or slaked
for what thirst devours first. And to be not solely as just seems (well-known
fibers of being, yes, I’ve staked juicer claims to be dry) for precursors of a
seedier sort, weeded ere they’re wed, and trumping those tapped-out well-water
blues.
-Justly so.
-Not a working order’s say, if I shall have mine.
-And so in saying there is a will’s “be done” to contend
with.
-Ah. It cannot be overlooked. I dare speak it, therefore it
is.
-Reflect, damn it!
-A damn’s only insurance is what it lacks. Don’t be
forewarned too easily. You might mistake today for tomorrow, and in doing so
lose what it is to what might just never be.
-Easier traded away than done.
-A keeping’s try, at most. And what little’s left shores up,
steels away, and moonlights as a snake-fearing gardener. We almost were what we
excrete, while wasting’s still closer than away.
-There is a biplane droning away in my safekeeping, for the
thoughts I do not have do replenish an endless supply of newer news. Some of it
treks sadder tracks than any thought’s train, sure. But reasons stand to
reason, for man’s is a surer thing, as laughter or slaughter show, if not just
sky-blue trades to a worrier such as I.
-Mandrake in your coffee again?
-A cluster of crumbs from crumbling clouds is all. And races
are what we never get off to.
-Speaking from one or for one?
-A win away from placing, that’s all. A poser’s poster boy. Routine’s
practiced hold on events. I am less tattered than what appears. Do me all
favors to return whence I came, with no longer a whence to go.
-As to dust, we are in it and of it, and we all perchance do
dust, returning always, and to some we reappear too, just as dust does, to be
wiped away over and over. The upkeep’s the thing.
-Tomorrow always knows, does it not?
-What today would could yesterday allow tomorrow to be
without today’s say-so.
-Alas, another refrain’s rife tickle. So, justly or no, is
this the mood of hate?
-Love’s cursed twin. Yes. Go on. Assuage my most minor
opinion. In the twist of parallel sky motioning a journey’s yet, yet never to
be, just yet.
-Just!
-Not a thing to be counted on, wearily to go where nary a
long-toothed among them has gone not ere the devil’s take gets counted out.
-Not on?
-Never. I swear it were never a cursed word of mine that
dangled as would Damocles’ sword over whatever events might pass for current,
now. Oh, but for the mangled wreck I leave behind, area code and all, with only
my topcoat left to cover it, maybe some galvanized shiny steel thing in the
poorest parts of the machine-bright city to count on. Just a dial tone remains.
Maybe some popcorn.
-Who left to phone?
-Just phony simulacra, the ephemera of lost modes of
communication, dropped calls and lost voices going unheard all of a quick
eternity. No basics to get back to. Nobody to call or return a call at all.
-To bet heavy on the undercard and go light on the main
course.
-Would it be less appetite to whet in light of less-heavy entrées?
Or could we milk what’s suitable from the grains gained of coarser entreaties?
-Loss bemoaned’s still not spun to win one’s only one, is it
not?
-Be it as a haggard disposition’s surface may arise in the
doldrums of another’s prize.
-Purse loather.
-Loathing’s lover.
-Nothing’s all, is all. Let’s not agree to be less agreeable
to whatever clumps and dents our personalities might take. In the clearing
stands a boxer, or perhaps a woman of bounded sorrow.
-Turn the trunk, burnt from branch, into a totem to scream
your lullabies to. Your clearing, my dear hoarder of thought, is not so clear.
-And if I may not?
-Go on.
-Well, then in the stoppage time of my life I extend a hand
like so. Dexterous. Surely as sure as a shake’s firm grip’s less than shaky.
Which brings us to ponder why sometimes there is a buggy.
-Aye. At some time. At some point in it. A driver. A paid
attendant. A backseat voucher gone to misuse. And to what expertise do we draw
the curtains on days unlike these?
-To any but our own, I take it.
-The unimportance of not being less than truthful at most of
all times, whilst eating crow as well, or merely just not as well liked.
-Hold thy tongue. Here cometh thy one true love.
-Gilroy the stinker? By jingo! Thee speak to a ruined
landscape.
-Yet one that still speaketh.
-All to a withheld account. I’m wont to be shushed at
best.
-Be shy. The wind reeks of an untoward scent.
-One too common to my whiff, though uncommon as they come. To
suffer so by my unfortunate nose, if it must be smelt all would know by whom it
was dealt.
-Cork thyself! The horrid whiff nears.
-Whilst we drink a draught of silence we shall squeeze our
nares tight.
-God’s wounds. Thy voice be drowned.
-‘Tis zounds, my baddest of asses.
-Part with this babble and live a day to babble once more.
-Noted with what is duly left in my temper, these lips shall
persist in being tightly pressed.
-How now. Here cometh the one of rank.
-Silence ‘tis forever held, by thee, by me, by all parties
whose foul stink never let us let freedom ring…
Posts
