I reckon and beckon eternal feet for the foraging forensic firesides fanning the flames of several large giblets of fore. Fun, yes. But did you ask for the garden of Speedos to be torn down like Trevor’s face melting in dialectic squalor surrounded by small Londoners? ‘Hark not I’ they claimed in forests of languishing fairy-dust licked by the dogs of night. They cannot be named harbouring small boars behind the ears.
Yesterday I didn’t go stuff the roses in the planks of the small child’s bounty. There was not the goat for such a task. Not the stolen spiral for the everglades that rock the spines of tiny men with big stones.
But in the onward fireside weeping sessions we spoke of the need for more slime. Darcy was not there though her face was burned into the handle of my teacup. Sorry the words did not come before the last post but there will be a delivery of silence around this time tomorrow. Slow. Though your nose is not the only spoon that I use for my young yogurt.
Reckoned rules viewed the silent war zone with contempt and ice cream. Never going back to the school desk where I kept my secret thoughts and forsaken lampshades. Godly gore gravely-geared garden gnomes grounded. Then there was that day when I could not eat cheese anymore because the library was closed in the fire stalk. Silken stone the done buttress fried by toast and coal board vans backing onto the estuary where the end met the kind of Sunday that we have all be dreaming of.
Written in five minutes flat, this is the first attempt I have made at the lost art of automatic writing for about seventeen years!
Tell me what you think it all means!!!
Image by Gerd Altmann from Pixabay