This is an old one and I'm pretty sure it's not on steemit, but I've done so many now that I can't remember, for not all of them get put out as I do them.
Image by Alexandra Haynak from Pixabay
Zen: “But the advantages of the pluralists in the dungeons of doom are magnificent in their unreality and their jungle appetites, not with-standing waking up afterwards in the Chinese New Year, and besides, mixed fruit muesli for breakfast is good for one in this another pay day in some far-off land.
And there is a little small tree blowing in the half dozed besides that came before what went afterwards, and if it broke the sound barrier someone said they’d die a happy leaving. I didn’t say that but I wrote this, and now I’m saying that someone didn’t write this, it was me. Huh? Yes, you said don’t go there, please forgive me, I’m sorry, thank you, I love you and don’t forget to look inside and know the great mystery. Hmmm.
A most indecent death of old age in the silence would be preferable I am sure than waiting for the book learning to sprout wings and spring around like a chicken on coffee; bird flap wing fly chop-chop and the queen comes later here in the city of doom, big day today, much man with gun, hmmm.
High mileage n butterflies n what wat? N now by popular demand here comes the gravy train. Passing the midnight of tourism now on the left and this way to Golden Mountain; and the next naked lady will be riding the number 5 bus HOO HOO… and there she goes… a leaf from a page of life and good food n gratitude.
I’m glad you’re happy now, it’s good you’ve forgiven me. That time of forlorn, over long I think. Now it’s over, time now to be in peace. If gratitude was a story, could it be told?
2 dollars left and a whole bunch of sun up later I was feeling tired, so let me sleep where the cats’ eyes have no meaning and the darkness is a shadow that comforts, even trolls take time out between the leaf grass tea and the sherry apple cider, that space 2-foot-deep inside the twinkle of it all free flow and fall down.
Pulling that blanket of between the sheets up to my shoulders to take that doze inside that dream where night has sway and thoughts are just a wrecking thing maybe toadstools on Monday in a swamp, warp, wasp, THAT! And in layman’s terms, plain speak and the freckled wrapper on the edge of someday, did you get that? Don’t tell me this in words, take it down a peg and give it to me on my birthday wrapped up in large gifts of love and delight encapsulated. Have I told you enough yet? You must have guessed hours ago she’s the hottest brick out and she never needs Prozac, and always leaves them guessing and wanting more.
34 degrees in the heat with food on demand; just don’t think too much because every word is legend and every ice cave is cool; don’t frown, don’t growl, and OMG! It’s a boat with a rusty tin roof, but it passes quickly, and now it seems the whole world is full of rusty tin roofs, and do you really trust them after the titanic? They promised it was unsinkable and look what happened. Time out, you take your life in their hands every time you trust them.
Apple burger united and ice cream, and Rotunda mooch wolf and the blades will be playing later at the kook down. WOO HOO? Okay, come in then for a while of a smile. I see you’ve brought a crowd of beauties.
Footstop and Feetsure, both descendants of better times, one with a giggle and one with a wiggle floated down river on their way home. The ferryman was laughing all the way to the bank as they do. He was eating chicken. And nomenclature winked from the far bank. She owned the chicken farm.
The more peace you have, the more of the other stuff is too. The more you let go, the more it happens. The more you are centred the more you understand. The more you flow, the more you see it all as the dance. But what does it matter when it is pay day and life is fun?
Image by Evren Ozdemir from Pixabay
WATER-COLOUR SIGHS
The day was wet and misty even to that tangential place. Every day I wrote and drew something, but I couldn’t seem to get anywhere. Found a soft toy in the fog as I went for a walk two steps out in the night. The Frenchmen were streaming to their utopia as I smoked and painted with water-colours, trying to keep up from some dread so close with beer and movement, but you were gone and there was no way back. My stack of coin fell over as the witch of whispers whispered I must not be afraid to do what I feel, just alone. Situational switches to the blue are made of tin and thin screams and lotus leaves in a pond of jade sky; and my life entering you, filling you. Wear a red dress, or a blue dress, it doesn’t matter, it is love that batters at this door. My heart cries out, it calls, it falls, but it is no use. Softly the night wears around me water-coloured sighs of softly scented flowers as from someplace far off I hear you calling me.”
Monk: “Where did those Frenchmen come from?”
Zen: “France I suppose.”
Monk: “You could be right.”
Images from Pixabay