an antidote to the ham sandwiches of time. And for an atrophied cognition stapled to the pinstripe of my mind that sifts through the quixotic blue black spears of the infinite ending….
And I’m spinning spinning spinning down the convoluted cracks, past the violet crumble crust of “creation” where that Buddha butterball look-alike with the beelzebubish leer that burns like a split liposuction Fagin’s his piggy bank of pseudonyms from a fractured featureless face lift that hood’s those iodised infrared eyes, with all hope crushed as compost beneath his bunions….

So I stop, I stoop, I materialize as though convulsing offal pumped through a silk sausage to view. And behold, here the windsock stiffens westward as though a cotton condom filled by the phallic wind that blows across the neon nipples of temptation. So I swoop, I hover, I particulate, blanketing the threadbare throng of popsicles teeming through the varicose veins of the glass menagerie, blank ascorbic smiles curtsying to the rumble of the ticker tape wheelchairs, the forsaken, cradling their concrete pillows, and a chorus line of chattering dentures clacking “42nd street” in Turkish Delight, for Busby Berkley, the begging bowls and the tinsel and the tin….

Reach out through the rosy fingered dawn to clasp imagination to your breast lest knowledge alone consume you, to it’s peril.
Let the light on the hill be your guide, in excellence and honour, for impudence is your guardian angel in the world.

And the dripping clouds are beckoning as a conga line of blue rinsed snow monkeys dancing on an alabaster pillbox, deaf to the cavalcade of ragamuffin rasps among the misty mountain fingers of dueling dawn light are drumming on this dizzy crown like Jacobite jackboots jamming on the one jamming on the one….

And I’m a showboat shooting star sniffing out the starting line; a relativity bullet spluttering past a million moments tumbling in the solar wind, cosmic rays in my face, the speckled constellations waving me by with the scent of the cosmos splashing my senses like burnt toast. “There goes the Winged Horse, The Archer, Aristotle’s Jockstrap and Washington’s Teeth”. And I be streaming through existential matter into the seminal singularity and out through the other side where to my muchly amused amazement there’s nothing #$%*ing there, except those monolithic mirrors from the night sky that reach out in earthly grace like starving lepers in the sand, saying come play with me, come play with me….and I am there.

About Sainter

HR, musician, reader, writer, atheist, optimist, sceptic, understudy to the tooth fairy.

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2 Responses to ?


  2. Sainter says:

    Thx, mate. :)



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