The quintessential bar at midnight

Maybe I'm east going west these days about most things...

Image by Vinson Tan from Pixabay

I shall now adapt another preference to suit myself where sometimes sunrise comes in a pan of gruel, and sometimes it comes as a tender surprise so that I can only say: uh, my heart my heart, and that blasted spear of love that penetrates it.

It was June, and the fluffy bugs were everywhere, and fluttering, fluttering, as I was harvesting under the hot sun of my living every moment to die, and yet surviving onwards, and sweating, and brushing the June bugs off of me until all I could see was fluffy bugs everywhere.

Maybe I was going mad; or maybe I was turning into a turnip in the catnip of the fluffy bugs.

In the far north of it all, I was rich and owned much land. But I was a stranger to that in my exile so didn’t look there a lot; but:

I was a screamer on the telephone.

I was east going west.

I was an absolute nonentity.

I was falling and falling.

And then, one day I found I couldn’t find my way back there again inside my breath where I was falling and falling.

Image by Gerd Altmann from Pixabay

There was of course no refunds that would work for all the working that would do any good, or a work-fund pension to see me through; there was not even a hobbling dwarf to give me lessons; but what I did have was a huge reason to be here, but I couldn’t quite put it into words that would make any sense, and though I tried for many death sentences, I became less and less and a loss where I looked.

Well, one day I went: huff, and then lay down on the bed and read a book until the end, and then read another one until I’d read so many I had to read them over again until I wasn’t thirsty anymore and had fluffy bugs coming out of the soup like a gulp leap over all my dreams that were dead, and whimpering.

Good grief I thought, and mooed at the moon as I redeemed all my coupons where they came from for all I could get and maybe a train ticket east.

I was the next instant coming shining and shimmering in the death shade pink.

I was the roof falling in.

I was the immediate.

Image by Marianne Sopala from Pixabay

In the fortunes of the fluffy bug that awakes, the shoes become most active to dance where the dance in the dawn, and don’t go back to sleep, never go back to sleep.

Seems, like, no one knows where the yard-arm is these days to be able to dance like that in their coffins where they could dance free if they wanted to, if only they knew how.

Living in my truth where I can hardly be found most days I can be reached in the quintessential bar at midnight where my death is old news.

That’s my stance these days anyway, where I can be found dancing with the fluffy bugs and freaking out until I’m nothing more than an ember and sinking deep in the desert of all my love where I drink and drink and drink and counting the uncountable moments until I find myself closer to midnight than anything and counting the moments where I’m abandoned in my gloom where the long intervals of the winds of fate blow, and my totem owl is absent.

Image by Peter H from Pixabay

Living with this I realised I was an old bag of nails and living in the kitchen where all the food and wine was stored, and the fire burned away and was nicely warm, and picking my teeth most days with anything that would work, and waiting for the next stranger to walk in.

And in she came, a tall number, and dressed in a flaming colour, as I counted my prayers all the way to where I wanted them to be.

So there I was, well past my sell-by date, and hanging out with the bottom shelves so much I just had to go: hah, building numbers, and blowing steam and saying: I shall now bow before you and drink from the broken cup of all I can perceive, but if it doesn’t come home soon, I’m going spare.

Yah, she said.

You know that time when you find yourself going around the house and switching off all the lights, and then playing sober with all the drunks left over?

Not really, she said, and turned off the lights. And gathering up all the drunks, she threw them in the wine pit and then clapped her hands to make them obey her.

I was approaching midnight faster than mad dogs barking and thinking I was only passing by here when I arrived in passing by to fly here and found all this in the wine pit of my desires.

Oh, but I just knew that rain would come soon to carry me away. And I kept this in my heart for a very long time until one day I just felt it was taking too long, so I wrote a long note to say how unpleased I was.

Dear rain not coming, here I am fluttering away. I am not pleased. Yours sincerely, bottom of the wine pit.

Image by enriquelopezgarre from Pixabay

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