Stagnate waters sitting outside your house breed mosquitoes, allowing you to enjoy smacking your face and limbs and those of your family members without having to venture beyond the property lines. But soon enough you need to stir the waters back into your drink containers so you can taste the backwash anew.
Apparently isn’t a good way to start this sentence. Or end this one, apparently. There is no quality control. There are no system in place. There is bumbling, and when bumbling is no longer adequate for whatever aqueous reason there is stumbling. There are three am keys in doors that leave scratches on the wood.
Newspapers are economic and terse, gorging on scandal, crime and hearses. All loaded into the first paragraph, the rest of the inches are chaff. Books of poetry on the other hand are languid, variate tomes of a fruit cake. The only real hack of reading poetry is to disregard the poetry for its own sake.
Thuddering about behind the counter, as you look to rub salt along the chipped lip of a martini glass, it's obvious then that handing this over to your friend, now sober, now drunk again, is classically what linguists had in mind when thinking about adding insult to injury.
It's small, but telling. Your son or daughter looks up at you and in their eyes, the ceramic mug flashes. On it, "World's Best Dad". Or you sit down to look for your other eyeball and "World's Best Mum" embroiders the car seat cover. For foster and step-parents, this is a win. Time to polish your dancing shoes. For those who have spurred the little ones from your own loins, now is the time to reassess.
Safe and sound, as most people understand it, is for the coil of sitting in a corner, knees under your double chin and rocking back and forth in your own pool of vomit and faeces. The notion of "safe and sound" is the comfort of being unharmed and free from injury. For you and others.
Waiting to die is what you do while staying alive. Listening to the Bee Gees all winter long keeps you chafing in all the right places and the sweat stains are the flavour country you can't buy at a store. But the haggardly down man urinating into his own hands to mark his stoop will bottle you up some. So it is, as we age, we lose a bit of our glamour and pick up skin grafts onward to our deaths. Beauty is in the glass eye.
Teeth showing at the utterance of "Thank You" or "Thanks" simply indicates the greater appreciation of having a favour passed onto you (or of evil intent glistening with every tooth and non-bleeding gum). A small sign and showing of politeness, it pushes down any notion of rudeness or ingratitude to continue the everyday churn of a civil society. Teeth, as always, are optional.
Satiation begins at the point halfway between the start and the end. In the same space as the half-length of a piece of string, it's at the scene where the empty stomach, the hungry mind, or the craving soul, gets its fill and feels no more. Where the more that comes comes at a cost over the course of whatever activity unfolds to the folding point of diminishing returns.
Dawn follows dusk as water follows gravity. Dusk soon follows dawn, done after the day is drawn. Gravity, in like fashion, flows with it the folly of water, a drip and trickle leading all toward the lake, pond or puddle. Connecting one line to the next is where it all lies. And lies are where the best kept theories are born. And just as exact, where they often go to die.
Circuit breakers break; the block settles in place, and words are lost in a granite maze. This is inspiration/death unfolding – a paradox: the sundew that closes its leaves on nothing. Starved of ideas, the midbrain, pons and medulla oblongata rely now on nutrient poor soil for three-to-six day pap.
Bested by wanton youths, the elder state of mother nature toddles many well-wronged phrases of her intestinal fortitude. Many such phrases now co-opted by the marketing departments of war and raggedy bohemians in need of a good scrubbing.
Profiteering off the murrain, the Scarecrow of Lisle flops in the wind and demands a man in his early twenties, and of a scholarly bent, to entertain him in the eating of his own words. Not the writer type, he has but the recourse of his library, to the brim of other visions and voices.
