"Blaow!" said the shotgun. And said the shotgun again. Once more into the heat of the night. A chatty one at that. To the teeth, gasps and huffing soon follow. The exhaustion not apparent. Ready for more on this side of the argument.
“shaved her head/She was torn between Jupiter and Apollo,” sings Bob Dylan in Changing of the Guards. The line, when considered in the proper context of the song to which it belongs, of course, makes sense. But in another sense it is Dylan who is caught between Jupiter and Apollo, though perhaps Janus is more apt, given his penchant for showing two faces to the world.
“Lesson,” said Noel Coward to Dickie Mountbatten, trying to get his attention. “Lesson carefully, darling...”
On the run with no pants and no shirt, slippery is the bear unable to utter a self-incriminating word and without a place to call home. Tales of bankruptcy, shilling and going underground lie in the wake of wrapping up Banksia Productions. The owner and stable of Humphrey B. Bear, among other lesser cause-noting properties, done in by the South Australian Supreme Court.
Snails in the drop and the black pot, from where nobody knows as it appeared one day with a mint leaf jammed between the handle and the lip, bubbles with a marshmallow looking skyward. Out from the depths of the boil and soft shimmer, the white molten folds fold over and in. Not enough to ball up into the snack which makes rival of an amputated leg. Sweet juicy morsel of meat as it is.
On Wednesday they gather round and run the walk. Everybody, everywhere and nobody going nowhere. There's a destination ahead, but no lights to lead the path. Trailblazing is for the blind.
Speckles of dust hit the pane and roll off down in with the rest of the rain. Rivulets snowball with sand salts, scratching at the glass with the kind of stroke a deaf mute pays attention to.
Run for cover. Night descends quick with the passing light falling across the walls of the cave. Fingers touching candles, with the aim of bringing in the dark, feel the burn of absence that lies between the tips. Controlling destiny? A sleight for sore hides.
Crumple up the knees, leeches are on the left nostril and working their way back into the right ear. Batting does no good as half of the pain is imaginary. And as all gnomes know, there is nothing more wretched than the imagination. Gnomes, apparently, sprout up in the most moist gardens of all places. An appearance in the bare scratch that lies the plains is most obscene for the scene of pale green.
Drool hardy, drool fast and drool with the intent to peer back into the swill of the past. For the fermenting is all that the saliva will come good for and there is nothing that sweat will break. Stew it broken in the broth made with the wings and legs of the birds captured by the sun. Tasty is their meat, wretched be the beaks that jam in and craw a crow call.
Beauty is in the eye of the tiger balm. Mysterious concoction made not from the gristle, gargle or fat of tigers, but of other, more mundane ingredients. Such as a sniff of intensity, burning desires and a spread of concentranlasted heat.
Exercise is waking up and feeling the muscles stretch out as the pulse comes making red of the blue lines deep under the shallow skin. Every day is a new day to succeed. It's also another opportunity to veer towards failure.
Cool breeze in the pants, where the air is warm and moderate, and a head hard against the cleavage of a fresh cut base rock. Breathing drops deep into the appendix, still lingering despite the massive spoils of self-inflicted attempts to remove it with barbs found by the crab grass.
