A day on the moon

If you've never had a day on the moon then you'd better read this...

After I got to the moon I had to take my shoe off because it had a stone in it. So I turned it upside down to shake out the stone and saw the legend: Do not remove.

“Oh,” I said as all the air fell out of my space suit which I was wearing; and then I had to breathe moon air which was a bit thin and tasted of moon dogs with a touch of old baloney at the back of the throat.

Suffice to say I was in a pickle but not to worry: two Korean ladies with big red lips came to my rescue and put me in a bubble that expanded to include all my troubles, although I still had the taste of moon dogs at the back of my throat.

Anyway, they took me home with them and put me to sleep on the couch and when I woke up there were the moon dogs licking my face.

“Hello,” I said.

“Hello,” they said and offered me a biscuit and cup of tea which I accepted and thought: ‘I might stay here awhile and see what happens.’

After a holy interval of staring at nothing much, six shots to the breeze came the boom-boom of a gun and an old tin can fell out of the sky.

“Mushrooms on Friday,” and “hicc,” it said. It was drunk and full of holes where the light got in and the pain leaked out.

“New potatoes for any old iron,” said a farmer on an exchange scheme.

“I’ll give you a yardarm for those spuds,” said a salty sailor with his boots on back to front.

A mouth full of grace came by pushing a bed of roses that needed watering and began sowing the seeds of love.

“Rags to riches,” said the guru.

And then up popped the queen in the maintenance breeze and called out: “Charlie’s a chicken.”

Four birds flew up into the air and boom-boom went the gun.

Many angel feathers floated down with not a yogurt between them and a mouth full of grace sucked them all in and that's when I went back to sleep.

The aliens came then and shipped me off to another dimension where I could remember everything perfectly and I was so pleased with this that I began to sing a song of making.

A cup for your dreams to fill gentle there where dreams are made and this where we persist to remember that all we are made of comes from the place where we will return to, but if we watch for a miracle for too long we may dry up and blow away.

And in the dark of the open fold where strangers cease to be, a little man came grinning and this is what he said to me:
“Ah, I see you’ve brought your witch with you and what a big clock you have around your neck.”

“Burn him,” said my new partner beside me, her eyes on fire and no love-bomb today.

“Hold your horses, this is the landlord. Let me do the talking,” I said.

“Turn him into a toad,” she said so I shushed her again.

“Hocus pocus big fat focus,” I said and waved my finger under his nose and his smile disappeared.

“Where’s my smile gone?” he wailed.

“I’ve got it,” I said. “I will use it to water my tomatoes.” And with that we turned around and left him there.

“I didn’t need it anyway,” he shouted at us.

“Am I bad?” I said.

“Oh I love you so much,” said my partner holding my hand as we walked away into the coffee smells for dinner to look for more manure.

And that’s how you deal with smiling men who come from nowhere while you’re thinking about something else.

If the wound is where the light gets in then where does the pain go?

My new partner was underneath the wall pot tower in a frozen moment of suffering brought on by angst of frustration of a cornucopia of useless dreams and idealised longings.

So she calls out: “You pig,” and runs away and leaves behind her the mess of it but takes with her the suffering.

Through the town she runs where all the fat people grow bigger by the moment, past the sad church of despair and the gloomy god-man shouting his religion to all.

The eye of the toad creeping up the hill of her pain in that sultry moment turned her inside out and that’s when the light came and blew her doors down so that all that the Dennis men of Grimsby saw as they walked past her was a big smile.

Funny that don’t you think?

In a cafe of lonely sighs I came to, old men shouted to be heard and were forever falling to their fate yet sat at tables far apart. Young girls cradled their love songs and pretty for the boys who drank up the bubbles to laugh and spread a gossip.

A clandestine couple huddled in a corner hardly heard were in a private world of their own, heads bowed to each other.
A lonely sigh came from a coffee drinker propping up the table with his elbows, a little dog sleeping by his feet.

In this fusillade of slow motion, a football crowd of surge invaded and took over with their voices all alcohol and bruised from their losing.

Five East Africans in a dark corner fled in the face of this onslaught and disappeared to where they hide.

A tramp shuffled by asking for change and was ignored while the quiet ones that were there first in the cafe abruptly got up and left, leaving behind their words floating in the air.

Things change, nothing stays the same for long.

An old rust bucket was exchanging details with the dawn wind in the afternoon of his expectation that things would change for the better and that suddenly he would become more than he could think of and that the tide would turn and all his dreams would come true.

The dawn wind listened with half an ear to all his meandering that went round and round until finally the wind could take no more and blew off somewhere, anywhere but there listening to a litany of thoughts with no action.

A fool came by on a donkey and stopped to listen and then another one came and before too long there was a crowd of fools listening to the rust bucket and with such an audience he was in Heaven with so many to listen to him.

So never let it be said that there’s no one else like you in the world, for somewhere there is.

The dance is not in the darkness and when you find yourself you’ll know, but until then move towards the light. If in a firm belief you can accomplish movement then keep going.

All light is a gate that leads through to you. In the no-thought of silence without fear or doubt, while allowing, light can manifest.

Thoughts are a thing, a stone weight and will lead you along many paths and all of them an illusion within that thinking and even though they may manifest, like a cake made from many ingredients, will dissipate after a time and become something unwanted.

Nothing is as it seems; everything perceived by the senses is in transition to something or somewhere else.

In the no-thought, light can be seen that is not a made thing. Sunlight and flame will eventually burn out; all light seen by the eyes will extinguish, but that light inside never goes out.

Small circles of a dream then? Sound the trumpets or be silent.

So I said: why this and not that? I would know, is it just all a small piece of nothing in the journey as spiders climb around in my eyes?

But the gods and the wolf cry this between them this silver speck to die no more in this place without trust.

Come now and let me know here where I wait for you that this place is my echo where I write about the sunlight of love in the waves of every moment that passes by and calls my name and every face that holds a reflection of you.

But it is time to make a move, where the staying has been too long and is life worth living without love?

Now I’m feeling all of a really rather again and ten thousand miles is a hard place to be when you’re away from what you want.

So is the moon in my dreams or is this too hard a thing to do in all these small circles I am abandoned in?

Don’t answer me this in the rust of the turning where the circles dance, but come closer where I can see you.

We are avuncular here in our nature to be pure, where we persist in; but never mind, death closes all gaps and the sun-dance is only for the young in spirit, so step into the dance or run away.

And here’s an old cup for you full of the rustic blues of a bittersweet moment and a dusty excuse to be used over and over again and this is for the venture that is you, but beware the twelve slaves of doom in an endless yard of dust for their satisfaction to fulfil.

And then here to return to rust when the seven paths of light meet the unending stream we will know, but until then we will eat our chicken soup and chant the name of our ghost while the wealthy pay someone to do it for them.

There are many ways to travel backwards and all of them downhill, but if you really want to make an omelette then start gathering eggs for there is no better time than now but if you find yourself in the machine shops making custard then pray hard...

End of part 11

Image from Pixabay

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