The Lucky 13

Handling a garden fork with uneven tines is like speaking with your mouth closed. Four candles burn bright behind your eyes, giving you a golden glow of uncertain silence. The work gets done on a cold, cold night. Glistening is: A large undercoated silver wall; ready for the shining paint. Painting the wall screaming ‘Please garment and I quit’ is one way for the glowing fork walls to reach their destination. As this jazz piano tune rings in my ear, everything stops. Silliness in stillness in silence.

Synthia had started a band, she wanted to play organised music, you know… with an organ. Soon the notes started to flow; through the letter box. ‘Turn that noise down’ they said. Well, Synthia didn’t like this at all. She arranged the musicians into two groups, shouting to one: Start! Stop! Start! Slow down! Stop! Once they started playing she shouted to the other: Start! Stop! Start! Stop! Somehow eventually the music fell into place, in perfect synchrony with each other.

I’ll take the next train, I don’t wanna be your friend anymore, I’ll see you eat foie gras and nothing else – those damn ducks and clucks, they know what’s been going down… I’ll show you the road, mad hat, crab rat. I’ve never seen you looking as luscious as you do with that little… Oh well it was worth it. Banned hands get sharper by hour, no colours and his primary friend, a grey overhung juice, with its small, small crashed up nerve. I’ll see you never again, never again without a hearse, the strange tailed faucet crowed.

I have had a cat’s eye face graft operation. The projectile plasmoids which were my eyes look like glass teardrops in the grey metal dish. My new opticals sit in their sockets like the soft silky voice of every tomorrow’s wishful acquisitions. Two who are constant in their stillness capture my lust. In dusts speckled light shines a deep influx of noise. Broken up by, the two; short and tall, extrovert and introvert. The songs of time spoken through a coloured filter.

Knowing only what has been before, the future still surprises them.
She sees herself as a fly in an icecube brushed aside by the peripheral society where it sat. A long tube blown away by her mainstream sense of nowhere sang a song that lightened the nights gaze. Her eyes in the merged pillars of what turned out to be a weathered hazel tree. Offering nuts to the bolts that wrapped the front of a sound which turned to rust. Like her hair glistening in the snows pale reflection of lust. A handful of bee’s acid like stings the night to perfection. In smoke water the burden of a few minutes of earth’s grasping vines drips into dust as she utters a moment of silence.

They feed off each other’s misery like monkeys grooming. Their emotions burnt out, their tunnel vision memories never fading away. A grasp of what death could mean. Is mean, as the time ticks away the night’s dawn closes in. Through one way glass they see a reflection of themselves in each other. A couple embrace between double glazed windows. This bright image repeats itself on a screen shown to millions. The gaze of those sat watching wander into the eyes of their caring friends. All this as a man lops off both his arms. Taken for granted without knowledge of how this will affect them now and later.

Being average is difficult because of the ability to aspire to things always out of reach. The easy options that evade the average are mean. If only the average could change their mode of thinking then the aforementioned would be less mean. The average is a mainstream view of: Capitalism isn’t working. More isms are poured into the void left, right, and centre. The void is accessible via senses, every tomorrow. Imagining uncertainties is good because pondering the only certainty in life will get you nowhere but there: The void.

I am a 1 + 1 = 9 type of guy; I see things where they are none. Single figures so very finite, invented expanse with multiple guides. Teaching ways of delusion, the ants sit in their farm. Like somehow barracks for unused numbers want to line upside down and back again. Nature’s a spinning wheel so use the movement to your advantage, the sly digits clicked. Painted letters into words, and rearrange on the canvas; telling the world what they don’t know, that they have known for eternity: the past and previous Zen dance.

Tiny fruit flies aim for my eyes. While a long ponderous moment is taking place, I feel deaths own warm hand on my shoulder. At least I think it is death, maybe it’s you, it is you, and you’ve come to kill me. So I smile at you and you walk away. You walk back to your lonely trail in life, music and love. While I wonder on, fixated with death, in a crowd of one person where the clocks don’t tick. I cannot stand the sound of a ticking clock. The clock ticks on and I realise I am also alone in life, music and love. Happiness in loneliness, this is the time where our paths have crossed, never to meet again. The same direction we walk together, apart we stride towards our goals.

The ignorant are insulting perhaps one of my dearest friends behind her back. While I collapse into myself, I shed a tear for the whole of the world, in sadness, stillness and for the water effect lollipop sticks in the slalom race. The water runs back and forth, up and down for a long time. Maybe an hour or so later, a red telephone box appears by the side of a winding road with a red Royal Mail van driving along it. I then go an epic adventure and rest at a friend’s house and eat ring shaped potato snacks. So salty!

She said I should put my hair in a cake. I think something was lost in translation as a small bird blew a hole in the window too. ‘I think she had the flu.’ Said the Veterinary. Who flew out of the room to take an emergency call. Some people were walking in circles with a purpose in the next room. The slow dancers danced and terrific cries were heard from the surrounding area.

‘Give me eyes and ears, feelings to feel.’ Said the sphere, inside a sphere that could speak. A donut shaped life will not see it, when it happens. For its eyes are on the outside. Only the dudes looking inside will see the mirror that shows them the real outside. Like wood with potential to be carved the people read into obsession and ill health.

An ostrich seed dropped from the plant bearing life for the creatures that lived below. We stood there basically asleep to all the sensory delights of the world. He gave a clip ‘round the ear, to the fishes that swim ignorantly. It tried to be the religion that gave itself up when the truth came along and contradicted its own teachings. A pointless pencil drew the universe while three sheep jumped the gate. A crowd of people and animals gathered around and peered down upon the scriptures.

Blown noses and slide mucus. I crashed the plane when I sneezed, said the man in green shoes. So much sadness, a whole history erased with a lingering blink of an eye. A spectrum of colour turned to greyscale with a gherkin placed carefully onto a large generic electronic item. It is the worst possible start to the second half of the second where my life changed. ‘Four cats are with me’ or ‘mae pedair cath gyda fi’: you decide. A panda bear, never swears he never cares when he doesn’t share.