54: Eastward

Gareth and Emil were laughing at me as we climbed up the steel ladder to the safety platform, so I threw them back into the toxic sand. I grabbed Gareth by the back of his shirt collar and belt buckle and hurled him over. He landed on his feet in a cloud of blue dust. Emil was next - he had no buckle or collar so I shunted him hard with both hands and over the edge he went. I’ll ge a blue token as reward for this, I thought. They say “mandate to the tap dance”, well now they’re down there in the blue dust, red faced, pockmarked, swollen noses, enflamed pores, shattered sideburns, nice sunglasses, concerned daughters… My freaky bubble is coming undone around and I don’t think I’ve had a toffee apple once yet, maybe twice in my life a dark panel in the salad of man and I order chicken in a brick with extra string (alto rustle), but it’s hard to moon people in a topcoat and tails, especially now Gareth and Emil are in the blue dust. The butcher’s a nondynamic Buddhist, conducting the Opportunities Audit for Clint Eastward’s Clay Hand Productions. Someone looks like a wet pair of jeans in an apricot factory oh sealed motherhood nips at my joists Oh seams of fatherhood unplucking themselves in the grey bake heat of car park stonewash Some one who looks like your brother is burrows in the concerns and ruse glades and white staying up at you glassy gait And ruby like stain milk spraying dairy kid pulses over the hot crowd transfixed at your action - trapeezing above the gawpinlg slats… I anxiously tape down the space bar with a twenty year spitball with the hum of Dozing sows with faces pressed on the panes of Glades with a sky not quite mad with clarity in a beige bikini with the lowering of a pink portcullis from the bottom of a floating blue barrel with homespun barkcloth and myriad browncable with fleshly polished femurs to Lord Hulch and his protégé, the donkey in the dust to the one who is wet and portly, to the successful face gnashing its way to the big silver grave. to the other, lean, totally dry, with all the clocks and watches, with a power, a drive, that belts and thistles, the dreamer of the broiled expression. In the emotional desert magnificent hanging in its flesh with the weight of music's tides I heroically hit delete Days often have incredibly long legs they rarely use. On standing up on these atrophied stems a rogue twenty four hours will stumble, barging the successfully balanced ones, occasionally sending a wave of collapse up to a fortnight ahead, a fourteen day domino to us here. This isn’t a bizarre image designed to illuminate some principle leading to wisdom, it’s a thing I have seen with my very own eyes. I tell you I have tottered on top of a teetering today too many times to truly tell how many times I have truly tottered there on a teetering today in total. Like the cadaver beckoning over a hot plate in my great aunt’s flat, it can be disconcerting to say the least, and cause me to skip dessert. These moments when I find I am ankle deep in life and the day is belly up in death, I brush myself down and make my way along the legs of tomorrow, as the new day begins to haul itself up, slowly I saunter towards my new perch.