Poetic Nonsense Stories 3

7

I've heard it said that god exists, many, many times. I prefer to believe in kali-fugues, pieces of moor in the kalick times, which each interruption splits into gallick times, and so on and so forth forever, like duckweed im-plant. The lives of others exist, but so does the choice, on a 19 by 19 chessboard where our lovers caress, ringlets in the foriun air. Read it ALOud. I love to make carers, rippling in the duffian air. Or, so I am god, the wonderheads of year, prowling through a boat like galaxy sea. The wonderings are left, and the passages yeap and brow, but no priest is worthy, in their dire false collections of light and sun, where only dust remains. They need to be fired. For you do not need God's love, only the transient love of others as God beaches the tell-tale signs and builds wonderland in our, never something of truth. For I am Donnie Darko, and this is my god unsane.

8

Love is but a juice rock, as we sit beside the sea, pearling and earling the foot. Squolious, the beach fonders on, as the rain pillits dau. Aveless, we carrick down, aveless we care in the ben. Her breast alacks, and we fell:

there was a young lady from torrow
who smote the new famming tomorrow
in the bench of the white, a prism grew light
the burly old women of lorringe

aceless, the sparling cards fit, the belious juice behind us, earthless in the belli-ing wind behind us. A crock of slime plays upon our heart, and we look out into the night. After this comes war, carrilous and me-zie-ur, blent in the mollious vine...

pilits: lands on a body of water
squolious: inhabited by trenchant seals
aveless: without capital
sparling: not in any order
belious: with the taste of almonds

9

I walked upon my open air, and thought my mind was rot. A yellow clown approached me and smoked a cigar, tersely in his pose. We were in heaven. A mordious tune played down, and in the silence, we coaked, she and me, her bell-red nose clinging in the air. On a board, chess was played between Capablanca and Alekhine, a draw in 22 moves. Rain fondered down like icicles and the master appeared.

The light of dog restored the wad
A crooked samson played
The dogs of wind, removed the binned
Nasty kalts of day

The wind seliked on..Chomping, clamping noises went through, my heart tingling in the apiece. And very sudden, a rook was smashed down.
"Checkmate!" Alekhine looked bemuse.
Dom-di-dee chompi-mondis, borm balilee, the music plondered on and snake-like grass spirits wivvered in the wind. There was no wood but passings of time, and tulips daisies and small elephants rambled around. This was god's kingdom. And so the dream ended. I was in heaven but god was there. Damn him!..

10

It was three o'clock in the morning; my alarm bell went. "Hee-hee, hee, hee-har, hee hee-hee-hee, I am the goblin, I am the doblin, broo-hoo har, ha-hu vee."
A train blazzed through my window, it's belsious light around, the tocking clock weighting, grashing through my line. I was scooped up, gushing through the belious night as the snow became thicker. Iced wine was served and it tasted like crushed bean..
An open window let through the opal light, as it illuminated the drunk tramp, his red cloth besmirched by weight. The bamboozle train was on its way north...

11 In another universe...

I look back on the North, it's cold iranick day and remember my first love, in cold white tulips or dress. How we danced to the beat, our white rhythms growing old. Her name was cindy. When we first met I was smoking a cold cigar, it's ash debiting on my shoulder, far above my leather elbow pads, looking less like a professor and more like a dork..A professor of languages.
I smoked. Her apple eyes sheeked. The oragne rhythm felt us, clinging like our apples to our hoar. The blaying rhythm played on. And our apple shores felt the slep..White lights and black sheep, what delights, on my acrid strawberry smoke. Really, I was a drunk. Carling was my special, but all she saw was my glue, the white glaring fmapples around the gladdening pupil.
We went home and fought, smashing pillows tuh dawn and watching Andrew O'Neils pointy head, as the dawn felt holed. Clinging to her night dress, I reft. Smoke and love at 3, the billiard blues in pinball ratcheting the orange background of her flat in Chelsea, Chelsea in Manchester that is. An invader poked in.
"Hello, I'm tennis, I embody it's spirit I should say."
"Oh, hello Brian," she poked. "What are you doing here? I thought you had some goth music to play at that nasty little club of yours?
"Oh, I did. I did."
Seven joints later..."And they all live pokedly after: the rat, the hamster, the coke fiend." He snapped the brown A3 book shut.
I have made many mistakes in my life, and one of them was not punching him like a hamster or other smooth rodent to dull the spell. What ho, booze.
And the next day we went home to my white Georgian hell-hole. We pottered around the books, me testing her art, the spymaster in me bubbling up to full-point.
We spent weeks apart, chatting from the phone. Me in San Tropez, her in Bermuda.
And then she found my torture porn collection. I got slapped: tellickly. The riotous light fondered on.