Electrocuted branches writhed under the stormy blue sky, which hurled upon the hills and ditches and pot-holes, golf ball sized droplets of acid rain
It’s midnight, the birds chirp in their sleep, the moon is a prickly old bastard.
Mother locked father in the closet to protect herself and the neighbourhood from his nightmares which burst out of him at the most inconsiderate of times
She leans against the door and says: “See the bigger picture into the future!”
He sits on a small hill of heels and replies:
“Make big needles in order to thread the droplets of saliva pinned under a blossoming Ox with antlers and wings, with long corkscrew lashes and grandpa ear bristles.”
“There you go off with your Bull again!”
He sings a hymn of giggles and chuckles.
Even though the suspenders kept her versatile grudges in check (which bounced just bellow the bellowing plexus) her castle remained a greatly impenetrable theory.
Saturday morning frost prickles curtains underbelly
Today out of slumber I rose peacefully
Thoughts a carnival of ponderence and winter loathing.
This non-localised-sense births coherence when partnered with rhyme!
Much intrigue in my deductions… Much indeed.
Try not to think of plots in holes. I free myself with this game I holds.
What stifles more other than rhyme marrying grammar? If, of a union, there was none – then words would be so such fun!
I cancelled blogging from my thoughts for all meaning and purpose had plummeted from my heart.
Themeless, my blog, thrusts me into aimless productions.
What worse act could befall a mind which suffers for reason in every way?, than having nought to say.
Then an idea struck me as lightning carefully strokes all trees:
«Perhaps the extradition of senses and meaning shall inject much needed stimulus into the very digital veins of this hollowed out blog!»
At the very least, it shall be the primer for it’s death; an eulogy carried out to sea, ejected by the earth.
How far I’ve jumped underhandely only for cupcakes to be flavoured infrared!
This journal-scribble reminds me of candy
And praise myself surely should I not having had such an idea which to my delight assures me the appeasementability of my nonsensical poetry?
Hyphen kuala bedsheets
Rigour morbid puns
Shuffle irate condiments
Glorify deadpan buns
Hot cross pithy
Never have I.
Tinkered so blindly.
Shoveling with care
My expired teddy-bear.
Hove having holes hunted here
Hectic hair heals hired hero
Hoped hot heels had hands
Yes, we bought the shoes without the sole, but the salesman said it was a sale.
I had a ghost story to tell but I forgot whom to!
Worst of all I can’t remember what day it was when I had this story to tell.
*On my love of nonsense literature.
Louis Carroll jabbed me with his ghost pen and told me he ain’t no ghost writer until I told him he was dead (so?) but he responded quite wisely saying he hasn’t written a word since (oh).
[Louis hasn’t a single relation to his syllable-namesake.]
I shoot for humour but mostly end up with dead silence.
Isn’t it hilarious how the further into the future we get as creatives it seems more and more has already been done?
Performance art and the sciences are all that’s left. Just a pointless thought sprayed recklessly into a crowd.
Contemplatively constipated blogger, out.