A Tower To Tumble Through The Trees

Image for post
Image for post

-The business suits are all on time here.

-Unless less siphons to more, more or less, then all of them are out of it.

-Time?

-I would it were so, but for the time it would take to believe it were is a ploy not from above.

-Not like business as such usually suits.

-Or as likely it were so strictly during business time.

-As I see what I do not, for a most unpleasant taste arrives as-is.

-Or it is as its “is” is an “is-not.”

-No.

-Not a word as a yes would never do.

-Ever the time it plucks a real live doll from the clam house.

-And not the world’s clam, too.

-As any shucked oyster might tell.

-In that sneaky place where the good lord split us all, perhaps a moan suffices?

-Not a place’s claim to lay, as it weren’t, and the bold traces of a skysail’s wind e’er do show The Lost the loneliest way to golly about their lollygagging business, as per the unusual escapades of what do show faces less than worth saving.

-Or do they not, or just not?

-Just. What a solipsistic belch to wrangle to the sawdust with the stench of. A narcissistic proposition snared in a preposition’s bind. And do justice’s mirrors show what’s just, or what just is? Just being the margin’s right to be out, with or without wit, ended touched just a touch with just’s minor wrongs. Just? I pray differently from the norm, if the norm’s just is as you tell it.

-I tell none but what is, as just or not, allowed or slaked for what thirst devours first. And to be not solely as just seems (well-known fibers of being, yes, I’ve staked juicer claims to be dry) for precursors of a seedier sort, weeded ere they’re wed, and trumping those tapped-out well-water blues.

-Justly so.

-Not a working order’s say, if I shall have mine.

-And so in saying there is a will’s “be done” to contend with.

-Ah. It cannot be overlooked. I dare speak it, therefore it is.

-Reflect, damn it!

-A damn’s only insurance is what it lacks. Don’t be forewarned too easily. You might mistake today for tomorrow, and in doing so lose what it is to what might just never be.

-Easier traded away than done.

-A keeping’s try, at most. And what little’s left shores up, steels away, and moonlights as a snake-fearing gardener. We almost were what we excrete, while wasting’s still closer than away.

-There is a biplane droning away in my safekeeping, for the thoughts I do not have do replenish an endless supply of newer news. Some of it treks sadder tracks than any thought’s train, sure. But reasons stand to reason, for man’s is a surer thing, as laughter or slaughter show, if not just sky-blue trades to a worrier such as I.

-Mandrake in your coffee again?

-A cluster of crumbs from crumbling clouds is all. And races are what we never get off to.

-Speaking from one or for one?

-A win away from placing, that’s all. A poser’s poster boy. Routine’s practiced hold on events. I am less tattered than what appears. Do me all favors to return whence I came, with no longer a whence to go.

-As to dust, we are in it and of it, and we all perchance do dust, returning always, and to some we reappear too, just as dust does, to be wiped away over and over. The upkeep’s the thing.

-Tomorrow always knows, does it not?

-What today would could yesterday allow tomorrow to be without today’s say-so.

-Alas, another refrain’s rife tickle. So, justly or no, is this the mood of hate?

-Love’s cursed twin. Yes. Go on. Assuage my most minor opinion. In the twist of parallel sky motioning a journey’s yet, yet never to be, just yet.

-Just!

-Not a thing to be counted on, wearily to go where nary a long-toothed among them has gone not ere the devil’s take gets counted out.

-Not on?

-Never. I swear it were never a cursed word of mine that dangled as would Damocles’ sword over whatever events might pass for current, now. Oh, but for the mangled wreck I leave behind, area code and all, with only my topcoat left to cover it, maybe some galvanized shiny steel thing in the poorest parts of the machine-bright city to count on. Just a dial tone remains. Maybe some popcorn.

-Who left to phone?

-Just phony simulacra, the ephemera of lost modes of communication, dropped calls and lost voices going unheard all of a quick eternity. No basics to get back to. Nobody to call or return a call at all.

-To bet heavy on the undercard and go light on the main course.

-Would it be less appetite to whet in light of less-heavy entrées? Or could we milk what’s suitable from the grains gained of coarser entreaties?

-Loss bemoaned’s still not spun to win one’s only one, is it not?

-Be it as a haggard disposition’s surface may arise in the doldrums of another’s prize.

-Purse loather.

-Loathing’s lover.

-Nothing’s all, is all. Let’s not agree to be less agreeable to whatever clumps and dents our personalities might take. In the clearing stands a boxer, or perhaps a woman of bounded sorrow.

-Turn the trunk, burnt from branch, into a totem to scream your lullabies to. Your clearing, my dear hoarder of thought, is not so clear.

-And if I may not?

-Go on.

-Well, then in the stoppage time of my life I extend a hand like so. Dexterous. Surely as sure as a shake’s firm grip’s less than shaky. Which brings us to ponder why sometimes there is a buggy.

-Aye. At some time. At some point in it. A driver. A paid attendant. A backseat voucher gone to misuse. And to what expertise do we draw the curtains on days unlike these?

-To any but our own, I take it.

-The unimportance of not being less than truthful at most of all times, whilst eating crow as well, or merely just not as well liked.

-Hold thy tongue. Here lowly cometh thy Land’s Highest Holder of Offices.

-Drumpf the Stinker? By jingo! Thee speak to a ruined landscape.

-Yet one that still speaketh.

-All to a withheld account. I’m wont to be shushed at best.

-Be shy. The wind reeks of an untoward scent.

-One too common to my whiff, though uncommon as they come. To suffer so by my unfortunate nose, if it must be smelt all would know by whom it was dealt.

-Cork thyself! The horrid whiff nears.

-Whilst we drink a draught of silence we shall squeeze our nares tight.

-God’s wounds. Thy voice be drowned.

-‘Tis zounds, my baddest of asses.

-Part with this babble and live a day to babble once more.

-Noted with what is duly left in my temper, these lips shall persist in being tightly pressed.

-How now. Here cometh the one of rank.

-Silence ’tis forever held, by thee, by me, by all parties whose foul stink never let us let freedom ring…

The only writer who matters

Get the Medium app

A button that says 'Download on the App Store', and if clicked it will lead you to the iOS App store
A button that says 'Get it on, Google Play', and if clicked it will lead you to the Google Play store