A penny whisker in a farthing machine

This is a conglomeration of small parts taken to make a whole...

Image by Muntaha Nega from Pixabay

Most times we would have it one way as opposed to another but sometimes, as in the case of the missing fried chicken syndrome not all things immediately come about by wishing, and sometimes even things don’t come about at all if the door remains closed to you even after repeated banging on it.
.....
The kung-Fu expert gets in an elevator and rides upwards towards the top floor. A few floors later the elevator stops, doors open and a woman gets in and stands just in front of the kung Fu expert. Elevator carries on going up. Several floors later the kung Fu expert lets out an almighty scream and fills the small room of the elevator with doom and fright. The woman jumps out of her skin, screams, and keeps on screaming. Elevator stops at a floor, doors open and the kung Fu expert and woman claw their way out of the elevator still screaming and run off down the passageway. The eight people who were going to get in the elevator all take a step back. The doors close. No-one says anything. The elevator carries on upwards. Salute the dead as you go down; call out their names; gnash your teeth in your misfortune, or not, as you please.
Oh, the drunken head a swine so small a leaf this huge.
Take off your hat, this is a prayer.
Over there plays a piano, and a lonely ghost crying in dreams
And images of naked existence and dried flowers
Forgotten ownership belonging to the sky
A poem that was once the wind... st
Now? st
Not now
One day I will
When I am young again
And all light has become one
And all memories fade into dust
And the aching joints are no long felt
When the heat has finally gone from my desire
When the last but one lover has dropped by the wayside
When there’s nothing left to steal by my soul
When my greatest ambition is realized
The wrinkles ease from my brow
When thoughts no longer be
When I cannot anymore
That’s when I will
But not
Now
...

Hot snowflakes for breakfast and china tea and soul-less flies sipping skinny legs watching a picture show with 1000 voices babbling and then a faceless chin in the sandpaper mirror with images of goat skins in a hot morning. Her face from the past flickering…just flickering…
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The wolf prowled the desert
Went back naked
Left his mask in a smile
The desert was naked
So was the smile
The wolf woke up empty
Took a breath
Became one again
No more wolf.
The man prowled the desert
Went back crazy
Left his silence in the wind
The desert was full
So was the wind
The man woke up alone
Took a breath
Then went back for the wind
For more of the one.
The moon fills the desert
A boundless ocean, as
The smiling wind wraps one naked
So close to home
To fill the man
With the desert’s well
Of boundless silence.
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Hippy girl
Draws pictures on tables, talks with passion
Walks in giant footsteps, dances through shadows
With rustic pilgrims
Fills baskets with fruit
Grows marjoram from seed
Recites old stories from childhood
Looks at your mouth when drunk
Abandons all sense for her sense of love
Lives in a place that storms move
Liquorice is her name
Holds herself like a candle
For moths like me to flutter around
Hats decorate her wall
A bike leans there too
Under a ceiling blistered
With old, old paint
She denies everything she doesn’t like
Likes everything she cannot deny;
Jumble sale plastic flutes play music
Haunting in her nights
That never finish until the sun arrives;
She entertains the players
Who are confused by their need
Fluttering in and out of a space
Far removed from normal
Calling it the same
Hung with hippy girl faces.
.....
Somewhere
The door howls like a wolf
Night shines something
Maybe someone, somewhere.
Came back a dog
Howling, howling
This that can’t be howled
Somewhere a cry, an answer
To the need howling; listen!
The music… away…The night calls... come
…
The moon’s beauty is in my hall and I have suffered for its silence. But if the bamboo reeds strike at dawn sunlight’s desire then set love’s surrender upon my heart the secret value of dust. st
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It was a letter full of blind men & angst where a one-legged dog was howling two pieces of lime floating through my mind with steak and chips; easy on the mayonnaise there.
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I have a book of maps and they all lead to the same place, written for me by a little man on a black horse of silence who came around one time and drank all my wine.
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I thought about putting the keckle on. Then I thought about not putting the keckle on. Then I thought about something else.
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Old women have got hold of all the weather and are turning it all into mulch with their gums.
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On the kicking of harmless chairs: you may as well face it, you’re never going to fly, you’ll never be able to fly, like a scurvy dog at the drinking fountain
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We went for a swim in the rain. The rain was black and shine, black and shine growing a smile; now we’re all the same; this said the thing no zoop left becoming a dream we lost years ago.
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It all started when I was a penny whisker in a farthing machine. Found myself just like anyone else stealing across the rocket of life. Maybe this is the way it all goes. Cor blimes, will you look at that, a pile of dust just jumped into the air; someone’s lucky day.
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Waking up empty from an afternoon nap, felt something like doomsday, like an abandoned lover, like a well-used pair of old boots, like a coffee and a smoke, like an exhausted note on a saxophone, like, it’s all going away, like, it’s today, like, no one calls here anymore. So, took a boat out on the lake of it all in the scuddy blue days.

Wake this moon sinking like a worm from all these holding bags of desire; for the sigh is a holy sailor, sailing for the angel of scuddy blue days
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We played cards with our numb mouths chomping to keep up. I think it was all in a nutshell, just a place we were in, a chomping of nuts.
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The festival’s in danger of collapse and there’s chalk marks everywhere from ones who’ve been here before.
.. You know, you get a whole load of flies in a barrel and one has a moustache and one has a fancy wife, another has a handful of marbles and well, you get the picture, they’re all different, but, they’re all flies in the same barrel buzzing around, so how can any of them talk about something different, new or exciting if they never leave the barrel?
.....
But not all the gravy in the world can move a mountain of soup further than it will flow unless it comes to the end of all things and falls over the edge into the eternity below.

Image from Pixabay