by Neil Flory

looking at you saying no sir listen that’s not me but you can’t help chattering on and on about the joining the two or three or ten of them fused together brass-consistent, passionate, wildly sonorous in the crisp air razor-sharp clarity of not that again I am overwhelmed massive heavy hands of inevitable confusion a mix-and-match masquerade a nocturnal shell game of personalities a cloud-suspended shell game of concocted bickering personas each of which is itself a mask for deeper darker fears frailties soft underbellies ostracized long ago painted with disgraceful letters sent into barren desert exile to thirst and thirst loud objection sir you will not lead me down that pebble-strewn sun-worn path again the prescription said to avoid dark stagnant water the broken sign used to say walk these corridors at your own risk and I intend to risk nothing but that’s it you growl quietly pulling my arm ever more insistently it’s risk isn’t it your bastard cousin ignored dressed in oversized clothes kicked around in the aftermath of rain like a rusty tin can left stagnant and wanting in the lot for too many weeks on end you won’t even pick it up its disease a mythology believed you can’t even stand to come in contact with the earth rather believing that dirt is a disconnected mythology myth of your own consistency your own tranquility tra la la la la shut up I said don’t you know the value of bedtime stories I am reminded of the wonderful story of the old man who having come to believe that time was a murderer finally decided to smash his old grandfather clock with a sledgehammer one day to stop that atrocious ticking well of course there was a terrible crash but after that a glorious silence broken only by the sound of his rejoicing laughter and song fa la la la la but you’ve left off the ending you shout in reply because you and I both know that the whole thing was ultimately futile that the slow knives just kept on and on advancing just always consistently advancing