This is one of those ones that has been plucked from the moments racing by...
Sometimes when turning over every stone in the junkyard of your desires you may find that the fabulism of a smiling impermanence is never more at home than when in the company of a loaded impartiality pointing at a hole that has never been fulfilled and is finding its destiny in all those lost moments racing to make up a good reason to postpone an outcome that will be permanent.
The sonic boom of this finding when striking the hour will break the sound barrier and enter the ear of all that the hole could ever be and make it go stone deaf, and that’s why to this day it is said that impermanence is a short smile away from a very long time where nothing much happens, so never take no for an answer when the iron’s hot and the sheets are inviting you to come in.
On the other side of the coin it is said that money buys everything and you can always pay the stone deaf to hold back impermanence for you while you build your empire that will turn back into dust one day.
When you bend it like this you can see it two ways, and although the washing may be clean in the bargaining of your prayers the outcome will never vary a gnat’s itch and sooner or later impermanence moves you on.
If you were to liken this to the huge stone of an electric flashback going backwards very fast at the most opportune moment and dragging you with it to leave you racing the echoes and chasing the shadows to get back in again you may be forgiven for saying: “If only everything was so neat and tidy.”
Over in the hard-stand, the Nippon biscuit company were having a biscuit sale out back of beyond when a million push-less motorbikes descended out of the blue and growled to be let in, but the day was counting its chickens and eating its gruel and so said: “We shall call them by their heathen names from a distance and scarper most assuredly if they look at us the wrong way in the urban wastes of our far reaches.”
“Is it such a lame biscuit to allow the young their foolishness, until their youth is swept away in concerns that come too soon and those days of carefree can only be remembered as what once was?” said the Nippon biscuit company and opened the gates and let them in.
“Suit yourself,” said the day as the motorbikes roared in through the gates in a horde to mill about near the biscuit stand.
When nothing more was forthcoming the day went off to look at tiger cages in the burnt heat and took an umbrella with it, which was just as well for there are a lot of tiger cages in China.
By this time, thirty two minutes missing was on a hiding to nothing and was having an excellent time of it forsooth and for sure and not for all the cement in China would take no for an answer from all the missed opportunities that never came his way in the stuff of another day that had nothing to say but go back to bed.
“A mile an hour, a mile an hour,” shouted out the big discrepancy going backwards slowly to the applause of the ten thousand lost in the mist.
“I am not an urgency, I am what I make myself to be,” said the prisoner from his lonely grave buried so deep no one could hear him.
There was a lot of murmuring going on and not least was: “How do we fight them?” To which no answer was straightforward enough to be said.
“Don’t be so small,” said the magnitude earthquake and shook everyone up a bit.
“Meow,” said the meow cat.
Thirty two minutes missing gave up the ghost and went back to bed no wiser for his making and missed the coffee lady who came too late with the morning coffee to make any difference in the land of the blind.
Are we really that where we can’t be seen, where the holy ning-ning dances and feathers fall to show us the way to go, some morphic resonance in the formulative causation?
When we rise above the collective unconsciousness we will know that where we are is not where we were, but only when we get out of here, where we’re not, will we know.
In the perceptions perceived of all this, where the dichotic foot never stops tapping and the holy rice brigade furiously write letters of complaint furthermore to their disappointment the exception as a strange enactment of unfulfilled dreams closed the door on the distant shout of redemption, dismissed the waiting staff of their responsibilities, took out a long overdue smoke and began to pace back and fore to the tune of a sudden rainstorm that beat down hard on the tin roof of whatever sensibilities there was left and forgot about the last train of all possibilities that was due to arrive in a taxi at six PM sharp, naturally, if a little ruffled by the early hour.
The common denominator was a lucky-up if we can ever look further beyond to see more to see so much. Oh the reaching that takes us from ourselves and those stormy windows we break to get in because we have to, and entering find ourselves so alone to wait for our destiny to catch up in the leap of our doing so huge where we will be caught again saying our prayers to stay awake one last time and then off to bed with you, there’s a good boy for a hail Mary and never say die, and watch out for the hole the grave-robbers leave behind, and don’t forget to scrub behind your ears where the potatoes grow, and if you keep on looking at me like that you’ll get a government smack to make you hop faster, and now look what you’ve done, you’ve made me lose my place; what am I going to do with you.
If the candid breakwaters of a criminal notion comes to startle you then, stand well back and do not light the touch-paper that will dangle right under your nose and call you names to provoke you until you are caught and gone and having to brave the long winds home later.
Image from Pixabay
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