by David Maverick
Where am I going for the long walk? Why would it let me take the road there in a place so often founded on memories of past leaves? I watch the path in the hedgerow differentiate in tandem with a lining so subtle. It dissolves in a powdery twist. A lightning twist wrapped in an agenda called warfare. A lengthy pursuit across a highway marked for termination. The tractors are leading the way, carrying the animals to a shelter of boxes left out from the last downpour. They revive the loaded strong holders and warrant a panel in situ. Creativity releases the senses and gives the wings to flutter at the girls with, granite girls in papery dormouse costumes. They swing on the play stage and gleam without intent. The purposeless atrocity of nature is accustomed to watching them pamper the padded wavelengths we usually ignore.
Sequels develop for further restoration. And the path continues to divulge the secrets of its own way. It reels in the fists and crowded partridges, illuminating the parleys of appliance and word. Once too often I would sit and ignore the castling devotees, allowing their entrance to be accepted without questions under the carpet. The floored out foresters would follow and whip the elastic lamenters until the bleeding stopped in unison with flight. All extras are left in a small envelope for the ladies of darkness to dispose of. They create the wasted wonders and liquefy the dreams of the desperate in order to vilify the afterlife they no longer seek.
Pardon the onlookers as they only know games and small priced terms. Quick studies are not essential in this rambling work of papery whimsy. The cluttering cards uniformly destroy the sources involved and regard the animosity to be the truth. Blissful foods endanger the species list just after the bell rings in the morning. It is their way to be like this even if no other sings the battle songs for them; a carrying tune in high wind, insurmountable by moonrise. The credibility of its words never fails to amuse the darling trustees of the buildings in the background. Those crowded places that haunt the marching night whispers. Enclaves of anarchy and illusion. The so-called senseless pestilent traitors of life. They drink nothing but spasms.
After falling several thousand feet, a common place event took charge of my soul and left me inverted on a cleft of ranged notes. I could only see the sun in the staring eyes above me; a glittering substance repulsive to view at a single glancing blow. I turned away from the bitter silence and steamed a variant cat lace. Connected by toes of wrath and legs of amiable spirit, I ventured to a small town just outside of my mind. It was a wealthy place inhabited by startled monks dressed in a forage of red gown studies. They greet the passers-by with venom and knotted teeth, elbowing their way through the afternoon without quivering. This is a place not even ants want to be in. Leggy withered spoon feeders lie about the pavements and rail against the evening war. They flee at the signposts the monks paste to the walls, while disowning their own memories for a small loaf of acrimony. Generous flavors are roasted without recall and harvested by dawn; the never-ending moment before birth.