Some may think this is about the Bustard's revenge, and some will think other things, some may even think it's about free pickles, but really, it's about something else again...
Image by Stefan Keller from Pixabay
In the iron stream where I waited, I found I still had twelve long hours to go before the pickles would be delivered.
The empty meaning of twelve long hours began to stare at me in the face until I thought that there are many inversion techniques to get you through the morning in the subjective semantic anamorphosic sleep-wind kind of stuff where another spanner in the works goes mostly unnoticed by and large that we have to employ our most best turning of a blind eye to get through the waking up phase of our dreams, when really, we should have stayed in bed.
The bustard’s revenge in another day on the moon will turn us all most peculiar if we aren’t careful, said I, out of the side of me pipe just then.
Image by Stefan Keller from Pixabay
Now what have you been smoking, said the wind, looking at me as if I was quite mad.
Do not wake me up unless you have something really amazing to show me, I said then to the wind. I’d been feeling a tad angry for a while now about all the austerity coming at me that made me want to hide away never to be seen again.
You can’t rust a penny like that, said the wind.
I was about to blow up my mind about this, and was in the last stages and didn’t have a lot of time to listen to stuff just then, so I lit the fuse and laughed the mad scientist’s laugh to heaven an stepped back away, and fell over as the thing went off.
Bugger, said the wind and blew away.
I began counting everything I could find to remind me of where I’d been and where I was after this, and then set my hair on fire to say: that’s it, I’ve had enough.
Beguiling ministrations of the other kind crept down the ladder at me to finish me off like and jump up and down and crying: these things cannot be mentioned here in front of…
Image by Sabine Dengler from Pixabay
Never mind all that, come and help me put out this fire, I said to the ghost-hunters pulling their future out of the ashes where their spirits had fled long ago.
I was practicing just looking on at that very moment and so didn’t see a lot, and maybe I’d given up on that, pretty much, until the sleep-wind began knocking on the door with a jar of pickles tucked up the jumper to make me burp.
I hopped off the telegraph pole about here to hurry for my free pickle and so missed all the rest of what was being said.
Image by Alexas_Fotos from Pixabay
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