A big hole full of Wednesdays

When I woke up I got out of bed, and then a few minutes later I got back into it. I spent the whole day doing that. In between times I wrote this story...

In the softness flakes of her dream, Ning-Ning sailed close to a wind that began to wake her up.

And waiting for the next instalment from the drug enforcement machine to be labelled, she made her escape without looking behind to see if the soup was boiling, but took an apple with her as payment for all the long hard decades put in to it all of it all and was moving pretty fast until the oh-oh came; then mud yards thick zombie mind until there was only 4 cigarettes left to smoke in the last ditch effort of centuries of war; what!?

Then servants came all pretty and smiling and pointing in the right direction or so it is said in the Bhagavad Gita.

She turned on a movie and lay back, tried not to think too much, but it was all there in the complete space the Bible mentioned which like the Koran in its brimstone and death prophesies of doom n gloom for all with lust lips n lugging coming for tea and laying over to read the book of the dead and smoking all the cigarettes as flies annoyed and: so what is the password and who did send you?

If you can’t answer by the full moon then send a gallon and call it something nice with not too many big words so it can be seen through the fog, and bring a music machine with a dream in the eyes.

But there was too much time that must be shovelled anywhere it could be with the biggest shovel of all as the light shone through the open doors of a big hole full of Wednesdays where Miss Pretty disappeared into.

Ning-Ning was either grave-digging or sand-sifting and waiting for the kick in, and avoiding fools, trusting that it was all for something.

“Oh Feed me with a smile those tantric dreams in the rustic lazy of vision; let the purpose surrender inside the wanting; to take the death then and accept it in the run down blues of it all; deny the dark energies to block the samsara that comes my way,” said Ning-Ning to the emptiness.

Two bottle tops on an empty table later in the dark night, left there by ones gone before...

"Did I make this from all the suffering? Then let it be so. To feel so human and ask why I should accept the lack," said Ning-Ning and turned off the lights, and went for a walk in the dark, alone.

So much on offer yet so little taken; then to walk into the night, and look for the painted lady in the hard dark of no return, to be lost, and take a beer on some neon, to sit forever and be content.

But no wishing well can go as deep as this that like a dawn dog on speed in the dust of a dark night the huge engines roar their plenty with a loneliness too proud to beg.

“A wish is the shape the lips make when they are on fire. But at the stroke of midnight we will all turn back into dust, so for the love of god let's dance, now!" shouted Ning-Ning into the huge night.

But some have come too far for that. Ning-Ning had lost her wings.

“Roll up and place your bets here, and come in number 5, the bed’s empty,” said the barking voice of the night.

“Oh! Let that fiery embrace be the companion in one night of no return. This is not a piece of toast, it is a fried lemon, a wishing upon the sunshine of it all, that joy-stream that sings as the bird flies, once more in grace, slip free,” said Ning-Ning, walking on.

Someone left these dreams behind that no moon told such without that heart to see; stumble on then in dreaming moons behind the heart of everything that comes and goes in between it all, that all that is searched for in every dream, in every moon that shines so bright.

“Creativity must fly, but talking is pedantic mud walking,” sang Miss Pretty dancing in a big green field.

The duality controlled softness flake attached itself to the taste buds of Ning-Ning and she became aware.

“Not so fast!” roared the voice of the waiting room. The slave girl laughed, it was all a game. Ning-Ning blew her nose to take back her power and proceeded to proceed.

She moved through the magic curtains out into the darkness a thousand crickets deep with the power of an empty room full of rock n roll and howled all of her being out so the night was full of thirst and the crack of doom.

But bloodlust and the exploding was a soup too soon as fans of plenty whirled in the next coming. Creativity has no concern for itself like spiders greedy for blood, and was it said that a 1000 kisses are too deep?

"Was I a Texas turtle going down as I was coming up?" asked Ning-Ning to the night.

“There was not enough sun in the sky to burn it all away; but I was scintillatingly skint about that in this movie machine that rises up above the past of it all. Hmm,” said hmm.

Now the magic dust spiders return once again to talk of opposites and attractions that found her wishing she had a friend to talk to, and thinking if the left handed dwarf comes to scratch her back he must be given a biscuit of appeasement and not to speak in contradictory terms to be understood where tears are savages and thoughts rain blood.

“The doom machine has broken teeth, it chews its own demise; it is but dust in the wind when the floodgates open and truth sweeps all before it a change that cleanses all,” said Ning-Ning to the night as she walked home along the narrow path of focus and consciousness.

“To walk naked then until clothed in love, or until there is no more,” replied the night.

“So half a crowd goes a long way; take it or leave it,” said Ning-Ning to the night and slowly faded into the memory of this story.

And then eleven angels heaved at the heavy manhole cover of doom that was over the sinkhole, hot steam escaping as a crack appeared. Through the crack came a manuscript.

And then the heavy manhole resisted their efforts and closed back down again.

A passing masquerade seeing the manuscript and looking at the signature took it straight to a publisher who published it for all to read. And I hope you have enjoyed it.

Images from Pixabay

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