The bartender and the butterflies.

“I am the maker of laws!”, exclaimed Random Soothsayer the 2nd, smashing his fist onto the lonely bar. Glasses
jumped about, shedding sasparella froth onto the nicotined surface.
  The Bartender laughed heartily. “You make those laws! Random, you make ’em, boy!” he affirmed.

Rowing, sidecarred to the dawn’s blue Harlequin-Sweeteners, The Bartender had always trusted Soothsayer’s tinkling words , and Sooth had always trusted… The Bartenders affirmations.

Bartender bred butterflies. He had twisted, tortuous attic rooms with large windows in the sloping roof, letting in plenty of light for his beautiful babies.

“Bar!” growled his buxom wife, “the ‘flies need cleaning!” She had a fair, whispy beard.

“o.k. o.k. darling – keep your shirt on!”
and as an after thought: “…any good cars today?” Shirley was a car mechanic.

“You’re not kidding! – only a Pontiac 43 Chevrolet Mercades 54! With a broken tail-light – not rocket science – but what a beauty – I drove it round the block – to test the tail-light – whoooah! Smooth? You could rock a baby to sleep in it!”

Bar carried the vacuum-cleaner up the wooden spiral staircase, knocking off more paint from the flaking walls.

He liked it upstairs with his silent flying, rainbow jewels.

“Good evening people, ” he whispered,  entering the room, and they shifted position in a flurry of golds, yellows and phosphorescent lilacs.

….and, of course, the butterflies whispered to him, in a sort of code, through the subtle rustling of their wings.
“there’s no more mould on the ceiling, Ray”
“Ok, beauties, I’ll see to it”, Ray whispered back.
To these butterflies, mould was a luxury; mould and, of course, nectar.
Ray swept up the straw and laid new. He refilled the water bowls and squeezed out new nectar from his nectar bottle.
As he closed the door behind him, the butterflies rustled a new message to him:
” Theres nothing new under the sun, Ray. Be careful of what you take for granted: it may have hidden claws…”
“Right!” chirped Ray, thoughtfully.

And indeed the prediction came to pass.

A week later Ray was innocently admiring the sunset, before unlocking the bar door – when a pair of claws  came out of the sun and moved toward him. He was startled. They seemed to grow as they approached, but that was because as they got closer they looked bigger. Ray didn’t know they had come from the sun – he spotted them when they were about 2 miles high – looking like an unmoving, growing speck. He was spellbound as they came into focus. Only when they were around his head, still unclamped, did he come to his senses. He ducked his head out and ran…

Calling all callers.

Carry you’re pride head high through pampas grass, whole and efficient where no-one sneaks in, secretively, self-adjusted to the baffling environment that precludes them, hypnotically, sundried and baffled.  Call out to all callers, in a hypnotic and silly language,colourful as a toy shop. Call out in a sound like curlews wading the hypnotic, sun dried, waters on the west side of Liverpool.

The plummeting train

We’re on a moving train and it will not stop – its merciless in its momentum. It drags us all along, old and young – rich and poor – times  railway never stops at stations on the way – it just drives doesn’t need fuel – its on a never ending downhill no-brakes runaway plummet to who knows what? Oblivion? Nirvana? Heaven? You name it! Maybe it never gets there – “let me off this train!” you scream – and you jump only to find yourself on a another train – plummeting.

Carmen, the Goddess of war.

Carmen, the Goddess of war, carrying a six shooter in each breast pocket, carries out silent, ear-splitting, exploitative experiments on the subway passengers, who, heads hidden behind pink Financial Times’ sheets, try desperatley to hide their shame and their granduer from the all-seeing eye of the ticket conductor, who tight-rope walks between the seats, from one end of the rattling, circus-tent train, to the other

washing the diamonds off the back of time.

Blog number one consists of an irresistible lure to all traffic who are currently floating in the motley pool of infinity, ragged trousers wrapped around their wardrobes of gold.
    ”come one and come all, oh, ye hybrid dredgers of monkey paths, zooified and admonished by the terror servers, the smart derailers, the heaven sent admonishers, please don’t give up on us, just keep rolling in, oh ye traffic, heaven sent and clustered, it is not you but my pen that does this writing,  this heaven sent, silly, clubfooted writing, a thousand tongues, scattered with every black ink mark, it is not I but my pen”.

More next week.  Sign up for my news letter.

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