The ticklish buses do not serve the matter well. We took it in turns to question them with sharp words and peacock feathers, but they remained silent, apart from the gentle purr of their idling engines.
It was Platypus who first realised that their vocal chords had been removed, (ouch!), and replaced with 42 passenger seats.
It was also Platypus who, laughingly, suggested, we move to Florida the very next day,
“If the buses won’t spill the beans … I suggest we scarper!”
One stoat, one weasle, one backpack, one mercanary and one Pluralist with nothing to say. Call out the inspirations, they’ve got nothing under their thumbs. they are beatific and transmogrified and they sit like roses on top of mountains. Also, why not go to Germany or Australia in the fall? There maybe a box containing magic items waiting there for you. Did you ever think of that? Green-tea-Joshua, unwittingly, evoked the summer solstice. AIl the yellow and orange flowers fell like warm, loving snow, covering us with their happy profusion.
been to the hairdressors. what do you think?
http://soundcloud.com/lieghonsea/market-song-written-by-jerry The specks of stars litter the night sky and I sneak beneath them feeling vulnerable to their stare like I’m a mouse and they are countless hawk eyes about to drop. Luckily I reach shelter before they do. And from the safety of indoors, looking out through the window’s glass I appreciate their beauty and apparent distance.
Still holding the reins of resistance – uncomplicated, disturbed, ruleless, the Great Obliterator, on flower decorated hobnail boots; walks the last hundred, perfumed miles, unchallenged and unchannelled. Biff, the comic-book character, arouses anxiety only in those who……
We caught an extravagant bus from Wyoming to Minnesota on the morning of the 10th of June as a ridiculous sun toppled the ancient Aztec buildings of Klaxton Town in a clear mist.
How hypocritical were the Geesha girls, standing by the the rubbish bins waiting for the solid Dustmen to come marching out of the sad, clear mist, stainless steel pitchforks over their shoulders, like so many exquisite Medusas, dressed in their solid golden tunics
Zinc figures emerge from cradle-rocking mist. They are bluffing, of course. There are no back-up plans rolled up in their back pockets, no call-out plans, no recitals blandly reclining in an unobtrusive manner in their back pockets. No, cash in hand, they delightfully extricate themselves from the mist. Oh, how they smile and cough out zinc laughter from between gritted teeth
The harmless wanderers reverberate and lose no sleep over the smallest pebbles of their dreams. The harmless wanderers have no plans or remorse or cold, gemstone privacy to protect. They let loose 48 rounds of pyschodelic, loose-cannon-fodder into the muddy, smoggy world, as they cavort surrepticiously down the mine-shaft streets of no-return, rainbow coloured shopping-bags held daintily in their perfectly manicured fingers, party
-streamers tangled in their green hair.
“We are comrades in arms!’ the surreptitious loose-cannon-fodder cry in happy abandonment, “and we bring you good news”
The cold clipped dawn forever notifies itself of coming futures, futures dressed in shredded plastc and straw Boater hats. a hyroglyph exploding in slow motion from the horizon, horizon, larger and larger. a walking hyroglyph – with hope and a jolly smile.