Exile in another house

Just lately I've been thinking about things...

You know, the lizard’s corner is where the smokers go for a fine blind and a yarn that’s measured in smiles while out on the street they shout: “Room for rent, room for rent.”

“Take it easy there bud, there’s plenty of room,” said the man holding back the tide.

But when you’re very tall you can see a long way and when you’re very short you can’t see so far but when you’re all on the same plank of wood bending over backwards there’s not much to see anyway except the sky.

And what is exile but another room in the same house of existence albeit sometimes a very lonely one.

So look, let’s make this easy so everyone can understand it: He-he, it’s out on the briny waves we go with a toothbrush, and a sword and a cup of tea to go, and so say all of us, and so say all of us...

And now that the introductions are over let us begin to say what can’t be said and although you may come close over a pint of gin you’ll never remember any of it when you wake up the next day with a huge hangover so let’s not go on that plank to bend over backwards so far.

This was written under a huge sky with a small wind blowing the words away as they came but I caught a few of them and put them down here and if anyone knows what any of it means then write me a dissertation on it all and leave it under the brass bed that holds many secrets and if you can’t spell and have a toothache and need a cure then go disappear to lizard’s corner and stay there awhile to let the yards of yarns wash over you until a smile comes to light up your life, and then you’ll be alright...zzzzz

Out in the street from this a dozen rustic English milkmen were on a stroll with their girlfriends somewhere in France and none of them spoke any French.

They came across a man dressed up in blue with snap-crackle hair who had a large crowd around him. He was speaking in French as you do when you speak in French, so the milkmen and their girlfriends didn’t understand what he was saying.

Suddenly the man finished and the crowd clapped their approval and threw lots of money at him and then walked off.
The milkmen from England and their girlfriends gathered around the man and asked him what he was doing and he replied in English that he was a story teller and so enlightened that he told stories for money.

So the milkmen and their girlfriends asked him to tell them a story so the man agreed and this is the story he told: In the lost jam, cry oh, of solid boot-stamp in the hoe-down of the full moon, Tump-rat was hip deep in the sum of the whirl of a worm-up and dance like a woman that not even the plastic modality could cure and then cry bitch for the wolf that’ll come later to take you away.

Round and round in the fat light stomp with only half a sound every 4th beat coming through like a needle vision no one else could see to press and move on in the lost jam, cry oh and with a whoop like the beginnings of a howl from deep within and with nary a sell-by-date to grow onions blended in to the hoe-down like wild geese on the farm.

Solid-beat was eyeing up the wimins while in the bushes nearby, Injuns were creeping closer with their scar paint n eyes of lust n death.

The circular buzzard was strutting to break on through to the wild side for the dandelion pretty who coyly slipped him up her under the counter invitation and better come now cos the night is over too soon but under this full moon there is no tomorrow so let’s marry up forever.

Craven face had other ideas and was looking to turn a flip from that but his see was not his to use and would break on the shadow of his breath he was breathing too soon and hanging by a thread and would be lost in the log jam later.

Too-come-now had too many pains and was spilling the juice through a straw, his Nancy beside him clapping some hallelujah only she could hear; a left-over from some war that made her old.

In this dream the night progressed, pressing from all sides inside the circle of stars and the blackness out there.
Come-up-beside-me pulled up a chair with her long legs in calico n lace and the holy bra of redemption to watch the show.

Long-past-no-bible-tonight gave her best smile to the sundown twilight of a desert that was a high noon now and who held out his hand to her and leaned in, all the creases of his face pulled up by the gravity of the moon and lining up to be a grin and was met from Sunday school to run away and dance.

Can-we-swallow-this-much-water was leaning over backwards, his fiddle red hot with a life of its own and attached to every soul there, even to the Injuns who had hunkered down and were watching every moment pass with such hunger to join in that music and were holding on to the earth to stop them floating away and enthralled beyond reason.

The fire spat its bark and raced up the shadows that swirling ever deeper.

Dust jumped up with every footfall; horses neighed from out of the dark; explosion-juice flowed as random hands groped for illicit feels and screams n cries pierced and blended with the whoops and hollers while children peered out from under the covers of the wagons, too tired to sleep and too excited to hide.

Into all this rode a lone horseman, dusty and tired from his long ride and thirsty for a long drink.

Leaving his horse to graze with the others out in the dark he strode into the flickering light and made himself known and two riflemen met him and on seeing his face let him pass.

A woman who had been keeping to herself spotted him and with a cry ran to enfold him in her arms, after which they then went to get him a drink with nods and greetings from all sides until they too joined the dance to dance away the night.

Eventually the fire burned down another night on the trail, lanterns were doused and even the die-hards finally turned in to be entwined in their dreams until the morning light would come to wake them. And in the bushes the Injuns waited.

“The end,” said the story-teller.

The milkmen and their girlfriends clapped very hard and threw lots of money at the story teller and then walked off...
Not-a-lot-to-say pulled the curtains of her window shut tight on all this malarkey and went back to the sofa beside the roaring fire where not-a-lot-to-do was reading a magazine about nest-eggs.

It was winter for them and the snow was as deep as the back door was tall and all the mosquitoes that had invaded from China were frozen solid so that was the end of them.

The house creaked under the weight of snow on the roof and was threatening to collapse if any more snow came.
All power lines for a thousand miles around had already succumbed and were buried deep in the unseasonal white stuff, which some radicals blamed on the government but it was too late to do anything about it.

“The government will save us,” everyone said. “They’ll send helicopters.” But the government were safe in their bunkers and laughing it up...

But it’s not all doom and gloom: in another place that’s brilliantly brilliant in the hot sun with messages poked under the door of the stormy house still there after all this time, to say: We love you like a cry in a silent river.

But that was centuries ago and the writers of the messages have all passed away by now.

But perhaps their love is still good, for a certain amount of pain on the big screen made them into legends captured in their moments forever.

You can live your life that way staring at the images flickering into your eyes but to be brilliantly brilliant in the hot sun of your life there is nothing to compare to being the star in your own movie; for they do say: it is better to be a shout in a whisper than a short shout that can never whisper again.

Anyway, don’t drink coconut milk if you don’t want to get fat; someone told me this and maybe it’s true.

Image from Pixabay

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