This is part three of something called no full stop...
Image by dongpung from Pixabay
And so she said: I think we’d better go, I think we’d better in the soft talk of nervousness; we were sharing a seat together, an exchange of numbers, some talk about a bus made a conversation but all the while a waterfall was wonderful to delight and help from someone like you to giving up our room, so a ghost like participant walks outside with plenty of and room for all your little things he said then about stuff and then the suitcase fell open as she tried to make it to the car but he was a bear in the park where it's a little bit like this, kind of, sort of; well yeah, but don't look for it that early in the morning, you'll not be pleased with what you find, better to wait until after breakfast; and then 4 came so he slept by himself until much later again when she tried to hitch a ride and he stopped for her and she said: no! “hop in," he said after he turned around and then came the meal and the cactus table awful nice carrying a coffee pot in the open air of the time where 5 came and holding out; yes she is, no she isn’t and was that a moose I saw; wow, what’s the matter with him; got yourself all excited for nothing didn’t you, so now, go on, relax; so he gave it the old: by myself bit, good night; and you know what happens next don’t you: snoring, then shivering with the cold to 6 and no, it was a horse, so she walked up to it and called it sandy and said: just you and me now boy, but wolf call loud and many for 30 seconds and more snoring on the prairie; no! don’t brain him; morning brings the sunrise awaking with someone else to 7, the horse yawns; so she’s going with him and trying to be noticed, who knows; but he walked off unusually in the advise: go home; so it’s ten after four and then all was smiles for the big reason and 2 walked to: have you a vacancy just for the night; off on, off on, off on, what is it; if I tell you will you eat me a home cooked dinner for two that's never been busted like a café in flavour or a wall full of donuts like a wife; separate chalets; cocktail here you’ll see and then: here’s to you, whoever you are and then 7; Point 5 & are you hungry; well let’s start then: hors d’ oeuvres and getting fancy now, with a smile of: to lamb chops!, but I'm a vegan, but they’re so good; but I don’t like to eat them; steak then; but they get eaten anyway and they’re alright, taste a little bit like steak; still avoiding, nothing, just my big thumb, you got it and now 8 and any more meat; don’t overdo it; don’t you never mind, I'll get it with this and no I never eat anything else; kind of surprise there then that made me think of you; does it matter much; hmm, good, making funny faces you’re wonderful, kiss-kiss to 9 and no more beer for you until 10 when the dishes are washed, maybe we can talk to 11 but getting crucial, only take a minute for 12, no don’t start crying it's 13; but I don’t want to get hooked on 14 so the girl blew the candle out until 15 came the next day at the bus station: hey look! the real mc coy, none the worse for wear with nothing to tell; no idea; but here we go, look around, climb a window, musical cities passing, but still in a bus to stop and start to 16 and gone home welcome parked outside of 17 and then, a reversal; we’re all going together to 18 and what are you talking about 19 so soon; and now may I introduce you to my friend, I came to take you back, now because 20 is here and have a nice trip and send her some flowers in 21 where matter of fact, do you want to talk it over for 40 days rackety yak and then 22: divorce to get married, yeah, that’s right, moonlight and let her go: contact on the hot seat at RKO radio pictures that moved to violet row where flowers gesticulate every which way whatever that comes in must go out; in violet row the dream is speaking what has been made, and fear dries the tear that scolds from the embittered soul who is crazy, as time lets slip a thousand years to one who can’t pull back on the slide in this place or in that place where the round of sound is hard laughter, where the join is, come on in and sing where all is broken and all is burning in violet row the beggar’s lament you awoke feeling insecure needing love, nothing there, nobody near to take her from her bed, take her to the castle, and let her see the dragon then shoot her fear in night is crazy down ego way and the girl has a price too high; but lethargy besets emptiness in the city of no cheer where all is unreal, all a dream, learnt so hard through all the scars and tears, but oh slow dancer in life’s joyous movement, break on through for a moment of two from the glorious matching night’s desire of black thunder hearted clouds spitting emotional cold rain where a thief stole your heart coming too close, then left in the night to say all of your life dragged to a point on wings of emotion, beggar’s hope but going down as her face in a sea she was to me, a raft of tranquillity where I watched her smile and the storm seemed less somehow on the quarterdeck where I was being flayed, and when she looked my way, she looked at me, and I saw love in the drowning waves that grew huge and swept me away for she came to see my face and kissed me as I sank out of sight taking her kiss with me to where everything was on the ground where I fell down all the way to where nothing more could go any more down; but that girl kissed me, I remember it well; and now buzzing before the end and everything gone; but the sun shines in the garden, bushes cast shadows, cat sits flown and a fly buzzes around, ten years whiskers blowing in the wind of a cup of fine fizzes where the mind, dust-floats in the beam as music nestles the fragments and somewhere a sailor sees a life-raft; and the letter, as all letters will come with their questing shadows reaching that far flung place, several spouts of hope were born, so let not the razor sharp anguish of your pain miss the beauty when it comes to get a life; and stop playing the violin and watching the trees moving gently in the breeze, lovely sun caressing them with its warmth, hypnotizing with its whisper as a bird shrills loudly adding to the spell where her spirit wanders taking in the sights and sounds around her and comes to the river below her at the bottom of the gorge; it was murmuring past over moss covered boulders haphazardly placed there as if by a giant hand, perhaps as crossing stones for smaller beings but more likely as spontaneous art by one who takes not much applause from his creation; the river runs to the sea, and Zen's spirit follows it and floats there for a while with the little sail boats that are seen with the far sight and remembered in the mind’s eye on occasions of solitude, meditating, reminiscing; she floats in the gentle swell of the waves that lap upon one another and forever play a game of touch and kiss; and dolphins play there in that world, free within the mighty cage though not knowing it as such for only humans can know the true freedom; and then further, Zen travels on, across the waves with the albatross, that fine being of the air, body expanded to harvest an invisible substance as real as the ocean in its own way; the big bird, seeing all sky and sea, relative to it all in its glide across the ocean as Zen flew with it seeing what it saw, feeling what it felt, glorying in that mechanism of extended flight, far from the land’s predatory indulgences and pitiful dying and rebirth and influences of whatever influences other beings imposed upon one another; the albatross, king there under the sky; then, on travels the spirit of Zen, to the far side of the ocean, to the beach of content, a thousand miles from the wasteland of despair and mechanized machinations filling the cities with noise and crazed movements; monsters from hell in the beautiful garden; yes, far from the snake she travelled in her quest for the true freedom, far reached her spirit, far from men, far from the clinging encompassment of anyone’s certain love that is always certain of its ending, she reached like a beggar with hands outstretched; unchained she dove deep within the true freedom and found herself at last, asleep upon the bank above the river where she had started and found it is good to find yourself when you have come so far and searched for so long; and now by Ishtar’s pudenda, the pudenda of Ishtar, phallic vulva in the month of nymphs, looking like she’s loving from my window, sitting on a discarded pillow while I'm good to eat in the Elysian Fields of Arcadia near the garden of Hesperides and going to Valhalla sitting here all day and I'm going to take my shoes with me just in case and then I'm going to come back and say how it was; maybe it’s hot there; but now perhaps I'll have someone bake me a tart; & somewhere in the vast deeps of love there is a goldmine full of rubies and diamonds and gold so get digging, yea but watch out for the sunburn in the sky and if I've used my quota of words while the sun like a stone now that says it all where I've done my bit of agonizing over the doom and allegorizing with the allegory, not agony, just, ice; ice is good for orange juice on a hot day; somebody else used that word but I commandeered it for my own use and then I went looking for another one and found it on the back of a lorry singing: now I'm feeling better about having nothing to say; now I'm feeling better in my own sweet way, etc; and help it, no I can’t help it if you’ve got an umbrella that doesn’t work, I can’t help it; tell me what can I say to make it better or I will sit in the dark and write this for many long years and hope that maybe you didn't come in backstage before I was born, before I did you this poem before I had lots of bandages, before you knew me and there was such swell; and I wrote you a novel and posted it away, and had gastric upset so I took the red pill, and went over the edge to find the way back home, and banged on the wall for the servants to come, and got on so many wavelengths that my head spun, and oh so many lovers that took a spill, and so much more I did you without thinking too much, and all your faces shone in the dark like suns, and I've said too much so I won’t go on, and I shouldn’t go on to the top of the bridge, and I can’t help it if I fall off it and don’t worry, I'll be there waiting for you when you show up but oh dear solitude you make it hard sometimes; and now by popular demand the motorbike tyre by a campfire, a rusting car, corrugated sheets that cover the rustic home on the beach not always, but sometimes, and that’s when it’s best: out past the lonesome hitchhiker who travels along the hot sand of dreams flying with outstretched arms pointing to the wilderness where all is free; and in the twilight a cool wind blows as the red of the sun turns to the flickering flames of the campfire, bathing in distance, basking in solitude so take this and wear it well and then the cry came from out of some love chain somewhere, a fragment of this is where it is happening; oh the lines to be endured; let me bathe somewhere where this is not happening; she said more than I could ever bear to hear, then she left me standing on her peak in some crazy car park of a darkness too deep, so yesterday is here again full of more than can be said and the clothes she wore haunts me now, so let another day begin where this one ends and fill it full of forgetting, even though there is no forgetting; just seen the moon up there, some enduring fate so sure, so bold and bright in the sky, but I'm just a ribbon in her hair she wore in the wild, some kind of fool she wore for a while; and not a moment too soon came a big fat boon from the sky and blew it all to Tuesday; now we are free in this thing that came and went; but I am not here for these dreams of solitude, I have come for something else, and then something else was true under the stars and blessings of stuff in numbers; this is the way it was: well we called up the cure to do us good and make the way pure; and the law said it was so; so we carried on through it all; well blessings came from the gods and we said grace upon our fields of gratitude and we didn't really mind about all that, we were travelling like the sun its bright sphere all around us, so we pushed on towards that somewhere to push on to; and I think we were getting close too, all things considered; but I don’t need to play that one in the grave of stew; but, but I am not here for these dreams of solitude, I have come for something else, and I'm telling you it is like this, I'm telling you; this was five to six, with a whole lot of stuff in the way, now I'm blown out and summer's here too full of numbers n pieces of 8 too, many of 8 n 8 n again 8; what can I say, it is a night full of the fullness of numbers where reality fights with the moon up there, but the moon does not fight; and they say there is no safety being this where mystical music waves are coming from the sun to tickle your soul and make you dance so become balanced today in preparation for them; the melodies of harmony are calling your higher connection to become one with all within for growth, to absorb the light and be where we are all human pulsating as love like flowers in bloom; there is no difference between the grass you walk on and the leaves on the trees to the kundalini mists of heavenly communion, the sanctuary is within and whispers to you all that you are to be known; there are no secrets so meditate to find all you need and release all you do not need for the abundance is yours and can be found in your deepest place of soul and walk with your heart and do not be afraid for there is more protecting you than ever could be to fear; you are overseen by love and we are limitless beings and there is nothing unfathomable in us that can’t be known; nothing is hidden so be true to yourselves in all your ventures especially now as the sun makes waves and forget all you have been told in honour of your own soul knowing and seek that which you seek with all your heart; and if a teacher comes along your path do not reject that one out of hand and try to pass, but rather become quiet and see if that teacher’s wisdom strikes a chord in your spirit and rejoice when you can for life is short and the moments are gone with a few breaths you are given, so make them sacred for they are holy; and so, out on the road as Zen raced there with a frail manuscript from the ashes of failed splendour, a yellow sun set on a sea all milky white with mist swirling about, and the sky shot molten over the black cliffs of nowhere; she was astray on a thrown emotion of blind love and strange wild dreams crashing through echoes and words full of breath, finding too much credence and the value of light, just unbelievable; she was not alone with that feeling driving her, she also had a bucket to fill with anything she could find there, and the sky like a gorgeous woman claimed her soul; then drunk on time, coat too big, shoes falling from her feet, couldn’t speak with all the crazy thoughts whirling in her head; trains were coming, life was passing, with wind-blown inspired colours staring at trees in life’s passage as people with sympathetic emotions and passions and magical identifications, laughing in streets full of intimacy that appeared from nowhere to tango with laughter, while leaves fell strangely to the ground, the muddy ground, worm-full, filled with awe-filled spirits impassioned in incredible desires and long lost hopes as the years flew by with imperfect thoughts in soporific endless nights full of timid tarts with cries of redemption in the haste of the rush as the wolf prowled the desert of this careless moon inflicting hopeless dreams on sanity’s martyred trust, while playing on that song planted in her spirit, helping her through that rough ride of black as black gone astray in the Benzedrine rushes eating potatoes beside the road with the virgins with no background or moral principal to fall upon and a free entry to any circle of anyone’s desire where all was a metaphor in that rush to a place that few could see; drunks danced in that lost hour of abandon, happy people and sad people too, and loners and crazy people felt something happening then, something turning, a forgetting, an uprising of soul, of spirit where nothing matters, except music to walk to, to dance to, to move to and being alone with that moment totally, painting her shadow on life to see how it felt, and gloriously filling the night dancing free and throwing her soul to the sky, and always wishing for too much; and her soul-mate, or nemesis in the cities of speed and moron depression with suicidal feelings and committed empty whisky bottles washed up into the forgetting, oh the forgetting, riding an iron machine with rock and roll thunder, pushing eighty on a road screaming at the sparkling precious gate while stars burned bright in the sky; yes running fast from the demon full of dread hearing the full moon wolf again rushing to the oblivion, maybe in some crazy woman’s bed with shadows playing on the wall above as outside, someone would walk sleep hidden and another would prowl alleys for prey full of guilty reams not quite poetry, raving caught in a spider’s charcoal web, not simplicity but complicated with the minds cello tape stickiness; and then she cried out: I must paint a picture, I must run, I must snarl, I must sleep; nights passed in green grass green madness, green dream, while rain beat down on the roof top of fey with a thousand tin sticks and then sliding down the window panes making fuzzy edges through the glass; time, as it moved, like velvet, pushed the inexorable pointing finger to stab and transfix consciousness and left nothing but brutal realizations of mortality and life’s preciousness slipping away with a vain feeling of trying to catch up, with beautiful hands outstretched to grasp that allusive yearning to set it right, but never catching up, always more, always something else in the dance of life; existence perplexing by its very nature her heart to expound by consciousness the answer; but in the darkness a faltering belief has no wings to rise above tomorrow, and her beating breathless breast almost exploding with wonder in her scarecrow beggar’s body reaching for the fantastic rainbow and enchanted by the pure one who flowed with a perfect elegance walking with her heart somewhere she had never been; to the ocean then, the ocean of love, far from the prison; she cradled her arms, rested her head and thought of her mystical soul mate: somewhere she knew she was; she called out to her, are you far from here and is it dark there; oh, it is dark here and everything is falling, pulled by a gravity relentless in its fact with a timeless feeling that is sometimes filled with a howling; and then she walked past the kissing gate with feet so far below in the giant hugeness and her reflection fleetingly seen and so surprising in its betrayal of emotion and was less than what she really wanted to feel; so she hurried on from that unkind fate, from that unwanted insight so brutal in its truth, on past impotent speech in worlds of stone hard illusion and smiles of heavy art, passed ones disenchanted by the social circus while toiling in life’s vast cauldron, the wretches wrapped in Circe's flattering arms; then passing the forlorn ground of life’s gay abandon so firmly cold in that ground there came the whispering beguiling memory remembered from before she grew so old: the dancing in morning’s first light such a life-time ago, so much forgotten; oh to feel light again and to continue in elegance and dignity far from the chilling thighs of irreversible doom; but sometimes time is steel driven, disguised as hot sun in a place between the fool and lifeless movement waiting for the saint, the mystical warrior, the wanderer whose heart would be bursting like waves crashing stupendously upon the illimitable shore with thoughts like the resounding whitecaps or the hell spawned thunderous surf in the crashing angry ocean eager in its heavy swell and heaving depths to crush and smash and certain death; she was driftwood thrown up on that shore; she was the moonstone gleam in the eye; she was the wolf from the nightmare; she was the stricken one by the witches spell, and burnt at the stake; metamorphosed in the crystal ball, chased by the weird sisters and medusa’s burlesque mutation; she was the rain kissed sigh of abandon, the echo of life pining away, until her soul will be claimed by the arms of Isis, to be free then, at last moved by Isis’s charms, by her soft fleshly delight; and then she was filled with a feeling of missing that place she was last happy in with one true of voice and spirit far from the fiery serpent’s spread wings; but her lethargy left her stranded in the yawning grave of I don’t care and leave me alone, absolutely, and sometimes too intense to hang around; yet life’s journey progressed through the thick and thin of situation and heartfelt releases of pain and anguish and love in procreating littered streets of the machine like cities; how did she get there and what brought her to such a place of vast incredibleness and wonder to be thrown in at the deep end with a wail from nowhere pulled forth to pursue her through time and space and to finally catch up and become one then to go on in a thousand lifetimes written and all of them written in the dark of the night, while all of the nights were dark and moody places to exist, full of the yearning for something lost; and time goes by so fast, measured by things accomplished and remembered, and feelings, and walking in time, contemplating time and things done, like colours spill-dreamed to a desert island of big flying birds in paradise, pale blue sky, clouds of cotton, while in the yellow leaves of heaven passing there is a space so far of spectral radiance warm as love and wonder like a shooting star which kept her pointed at the light and firmly moved her feet that way; and then with her immutable hope and brave heart in spellbound contemplation of heaven’s door she went in search, sometimes by sitting on a beach alone, sometimes with a struggle with no idea of what or when, just being, sometimes like an uphill turn filling the hand raised with a sword to the sky; her life was made of one thirtieth of a second from now, but as fast as she could admit it, it was blown away so is life multi-coloured, she couldn’t say, there were too many contradictions, but she did say: all is not quite fantasy or invading art in her mind filled with the highway, that snake that passed for reality...
End of part three
Image from Pixabay