Could This Be Love (Section 9)

“You don’t remember me. I used to be your friend from a great distance.”

Andyroo. Andrew. I do remember you. “I just don’t know how.”

This had to be the effect of the messages we’d been transmitting through the polyphonic bitz chamer time traveling stone circle we called Stone Engine.

That was back in what The They still called England, or was it near Devonshire. A blur remained in the mind and I still struggled with the tears that had disturbed me all of a sudden.

“You’re caught in time flux.”

Surely, I’d been in England not days prior to meeting Natalie and that relegated ninny Pit in The city of Angels.

Hadn’t I?

Andrew spoke again. “I live just down the street from where you’re staying now in those days I received the polyphonic bitz.”

Set beside the disbelief that our plan, my plan, actually worked, I struggled with what to do next.

“What can we do to end the gray matters?” I says realk uiet like.

Sop mop and strangled game. The They must be nearby me thinx from that Natalie talk of God and English being unleashed since God knows.

Rat ta ta too pop and oop. Metal rain came falling from the heights and chopper wings rattled the breezes left by the seases.

The They descended, leaving Pit wanking in a bloody curbed up mess of brain slapper.

Natalie no longer did exist for all intense and porpoises. I lost sight of Andyroo as he fled the sense of my future capture.

“This is the Schizophrenicon. Leave your hands where we can see them!”

Could This Be Love (Section 8)

I don’t know, I could have lept off the roof then and ended my chances all together there then. Broke my ankle or sunthing real extraordinary. A ruined man running shows slimmer chances by the day. His rate drops and soon the ratmen dingosnaps snapper his hide.

The lost opportunity to forbothin with Natalie really pressed my hide and I felt the snare in my nerves sinning up my sciatic need.

I considered taking Pit right there wherever I found him next hour and religating his ass something sweet but the thought turned sour for an unassumed reason.

Creaser Joe, I wanted to talk to Creaser Joe.

Or maybe Andyroo again.

I loaved them something aweful.

The clock struck one on me. I loaved again.

The typical situation, I now crept quiet in, where tears welled up in my eyelids and I overflowed with soft hungry sobbing, overtook my current endeavor of loner masturbation.

No longer, the connection, restored now, Andyroo spoke soft nothings in my radio head.

“Dork. Don’t be a floor donor.”

“Andrew, how can this be?”

“Quiet. No explanations now. Just accept it and deal.”

Convinced of the confusion we’d spread as counter contraband or whatever they wanted to call it, we didn’t care anymore, for rules or standards or agreed upon terms of unification that all could banner under. We didn’t even care for peace anymore, we just wanted to clean up the mess they’d put us in and insisted we sift through.

An end to dare I say it…

An end to double dare ya…

Hee hee hee hee…

I now attributed the return of love and tears and abashed crying to the virus we’d concocted and the time chamer we’d managed to send through to pre gray matter periods.

Could This Be Love (Section 7)

We coppertaned, Natalie and I, sunning on the roof of a curbed tidepipe runmill and we discursed loaf withdrawl.

“Do you suppose we’ll ever loaf again,” she quandaried something snuffy.

“You know these brown nosing essers…”

“No, Billy. In English.”

“You really want to risk it?”

“I’m tired Billy. My mind grasps at the old days something…God…there I go again.”

“Keep talking like that and we won’t either of us have to worry about being tired ever again.”

“I don’t think I ever really loved. I never thought about it. I just did it. I don’t know.”

“Natalie, one thing I learned from watching you…we don’t know when we love…we love…and other’s receive the love…and then…God willing…they return that love.”

“Billy, you told me when we first met that people only want to rip your eyes out and shove them down your throat while they cut off your balls for looking at them wrong and reduce you to ash over and over till you can never return the favor through a long distant descendant one day.”

“Natalie, I think we’d known each other for at least a month till I opened up that much. I know I’ve never been that dashing at first encounter.”

“What happened Billy? You were the brave one. Now I have to mention God first, while you look over your shoulders and hold your breath for the guard to come crashing in.”

“Patience, God will be real again… Only a matter of time for the virus to take effect.”

“Oh God…Just because they say…”

“Shh…don’t say that word…Sure we’ll be found then.”

“God is real.”

“That’s why I’m afraid, Nat.”

Pit’s head popped up at that moment from the trail way climber.

“What two poofs do you keep tripping, hear me some angle whiles, doth to risky means?”

I growled in his diapered direction.

“Poof begets they upon us when preparing desserts and dietary mints for after hour playthings in hoof begons. Now Get!”

Clink clank real giggly left the tin roof when Natalie left a humpy dump disasster calling the dry rub no longer applied, I nurtured no longer turned to her not to rub or touch or forboth for future tenses.

Thanks Pit, sport, I thoughts. A double dose, perhaps an old crease crept in then and a parroted frequency lept upon my upper brow, I noted not as the sea crested in the distance, the brine on my eyes rubbed my skin something wetted and I tasted the salt in truth.

Lonley may dreamed of days such as these when togetherness mad dashed for murderous revenge as everyone insisted overcrossed.

Forboth the closest I came ever to forgiveness only pressed me further from, into a dark abyss that grew brighter in the depths of fun.

This nightmare, I failed to address often though I considered the possibility often enough, it may be the truth, not reality, that I never pondered or bothed.

Could This Be Love (Section 6)

JimJim jimmied the lock on the old electronics shop’s rear entrance. No man had entered this one in particular, carried that particular glow of ratmen dingosnaps something particular but we bitzed to risk it.

The dreg of coffee stains and urine on walls branded us something smart when we entered.

The jimmied lock, placed by dingosnaps no doubt kept us guarding something awesome. I damn near jumpied out the jinglejive britches JimJim given me for Godsmas, which us fellows celebrated in the dark matter for white matter purposes.

“Calm those nervous bedfellows,” whispered JimJim.

Thomas groped leads in the darkness, JimJim shining the seedlamp down the hallway, I covered the rear, weilding an old bike pump for wack-a-muck.

Drag it all if not four yards from the spot we spoke a spiz-spaz zap and a flash of blue lamp came jolting at us.

“YEE YEE YEE YEE.”

Thomas jumped something torrent, knocking JimJim into my own corpus thrusting me spokes into a puddle of freshly sapped urine. Slip, boom, bashed my brains on the floor and blacked out I spent up.

“Your wakefulness. Time to tea.”

JimJim smiled at me, holding the seed lamp up close to his face so I sees his beaming face knowing safety a planted then.

“What happened?”

Thomas waved his sack snappers and gave a group holler.

“They recognized me from the old days. Can you imagine that? Buggars actually bowed to me. What rubbish.”

“Plus they fear the golden seedlamp,” added JimJim.

“Sure. Sure,” went Thomas all fall about as king for a day he’d been.

“We’d better whipper snapper,” I toted something aweful, bruising the lump of swollen clay on my forehead.

We gathered the supplies we nestled for the parts we needed and redundencies applying…

Are you still there? Can you hear me?

They’re listening now.

Can you tell?

The They.

Forget about that old film reference.

I’m talking about the real thing here.

When incarcerated, say nothing. They call you to old habits without drawing attention to they “selves.”

Sea shelves by the sea shore save see sures by the shoe shod snow sour soup spooners.

I do these exercises to trail off into the wild green expanse post wild blue yonder. Since gray matter days cowered the blue sky something aweful. We rely on our memories of the grass, plus non plus the damned maniacle essers plaster electroglyphs of grass memories on every building and corner in every dark corner to light the way as they proclaim to a greener future.

See The They just missed it again.

No you are mine, now.

You’re listening to some music, sure, and you think nothing will ever stop you from enjoying life, not even death and the great expanse of eternal life awaits you.

We all dreamed once.

The They might get you.

I do that to feed The They with their own doubts for all the doubts They pumped into us for so long.

When I figured it out, route sixty six, down to the city of Angels, you’ve got to go to hell before you get to heaven.

Everything starts to connect when the clouds pass, and by clouds, I mean The They’s doubts in our heads. Old song quotes. Movie scenes, characters, scenes, color choices, credits. The list goes on.

All people have a bit of The They. And all of The They have a bit of all people in them.

Hope.

Could This Be Love (Section 5)

I heard the radio in my head from the word go. The They, before they revealed their terrible way, when I knew them only as they, insisted I heard voices and that these voices represented a chemical imbalance in my brain.

Doctors and nurses and medications, those days. Pill poppers, we became.

I insisted on the radio in my head. I picked up signals. Strong signals. So strong, I actually picked up on other people living in the world.

God eventually called me the Soul Man. Oh yes, I spoke to God and he spoke back.

My spokes, berks from old hoppy drunk hours, holes laden in em, and all quarky from misuse, rummed up my soles something aweful. I quandried over a pair of new spokes but some of the visions I vissed never matched when I came upon drummed up old homeless corpses nothing matched.

I sprouted big feet at an early age.

Damned by the man, so said the S men and their war mechaners. No new merch for ages so they predicted. Who knew what predilections they sought.

The dark matters of their minds astonished us, for they publixed them something open air and public forum.

A council meant time come for us all to gather and be abided to the law, counted, quartered and drawn, sifted and swift prosecuted according to our work asthetics. Most of us got off with a scale and if we weighed in over one ten, then we continued public work detail.

Miss weight and detox officers carried you off.

A royal scrap and gamble happed after the anouncement of every upcoming public council when the S men said they’d be coming.

The real pied piper of it hit me one day when I realized the breeders who fammed in the fam camps and allowed for the digitalis processing unit implants on their own corpus, got treated to an extra tram wammer a day.

I sees with my own sintraps how they got four squared portions a day, when I watched one day, bored to tappers waiting for an air tram I actually paid a sputnik for.

This happened just after the gray matter times when all the orchestrating went on and space cost a commodity and then some.

The They used public transit spaces to house the cooper fams who submitted to exposure to weird digitalis experiments all us fellows didn’t go for.

I warned the fellows about radio frequency control mechaners.

Those days battered down the brains of those poor chamers.

Could This Be Love (Section 4)

I kindred, with you, a world cast into shadow by the endeavor of a gameshow net craving.

Play for keeps. You’ll win every time. That sort of thing.

Talking in vowels now. Get the message out. Spread radio head virus, spread!

Sud spawns, we in the fellows calls em.

The soap tendrils represent the movement, a material way to explain a way to the senses of those in the know. You know?

The sud spawns release the virus. I always release them when sneaking on airplanes these days, that’s what we called them.

They travel much in the same way they once did before the Terror Act and all that snuff and puff.

I shouldn’t be telling you this so early in the game.

Thomas keeps drilling me somethin terrored. Great mishmosh meeshmosh mishmosh moosh.

In all factual accounts, they’re watching now. In your mind.

Time comes from all angles and every direction. Remember deja vù? Well, time is spherical.

I know, JimJim. We have to explain somethings, if we ever hope to change future events.

I know, JimJim. We may have caused future events. I may have caused future events.

I know, JimJim. I may still turn out to be confused as Capper John. All the time in derision amongst my fellows. All the lads burning me with their glances. The sudden blows. The night terrors and the dead fear of guns.

Now, John Barleycorn caused quite the scare for us all. I hope I never have to do that again.

But what if I am Chaz of the old wild south west from way down under, whose willy times weren’t so bad after all.

The motion picture makers may still have a time with that.

Oh, JimJim!

We carted off some aweful corpses those days after ashen court set in. Set to motion the jourment of our days. Judge, jury, and executioner in our own minds, we all fell to paranoia when the lights went out. The gas burned heaters instead of car engines but price gouchos and firefighters all went for their guns and soon we plummed out.

Grab me a pair of old stale pliers, meet me along the old divine ditch lines, and dreg me a few piecemeal acres of land.

I drew up a plan in my own mind.

While JimJim and Thomas unwound the Law Abides of 350 and their God forsaken tongues.

I devised a way to save us all.

What if I sent a message back in time, when The They yet to reveal we not have right to speak of God as real or think of God as real or act of God as real.

I remembered, a ply me trade, the two-ply way.

We found an old bunker under ground and devised a machine. Tell time machines fell apart like sand in our hands, something to do with biomolecular or some sort of magnetic force released by the shockwaves pre gray matter era.

I needed a tell time machine.

Something digitalis but analagous might serve better.

Maybe something other.

Thomas suggested a work of old. A sun dial. I suggested a moon dial.

JimJim carted off something genius. A horizon line dial. When the two met the twain, on a night when the moon and sun both in the sky did meet. A medium line of sorts did seek a gateway for orical measures.

I thought him a bit leeward.

Alas we’d all unspoked a bit theocrasied in those days, so go figs.

Could This Be Love (Section 3)

I spoked about the neighborhoods, of old fammed out urbs, that’s all we had left, they’d been ramsaddled and not but crackerboarded, when built in time before the gray matters.

The Law Abides forbade outward expression, in English, the terms of what we referred to as mad gib motion detentions.

Wreckless lawfulness, I intented, upon the day when I released sud spawns here and there without noticias or heckle and spade.

Some blokes wanted a real sow of it.

But I just wanted the God of man to be made Real again.

Law Abides, insisted God broke the trust our money made in him, God forbid.

I spoke. So walking became spoking and such beheckled our folking tongue, the hidden language that none but none could ever true predict.

We spread out even and removed any prescripts for The They relied on that shit. And we always negverbed where adverbs once fibbed.

A bit of the clever hedge on Thomas’ and JimJim’s patsies. They religated linguistic notions of melodic harmonic states of interstelarr perplexing beakons to science fiction notions of fantastical rhythmic spending sprees etcetera theoretical applications, the list goes on…

A way out of the mind foul the Law Abides placed us under, we bucks stopped here found, left us wandering through the windmills in our minds and we rang out numbers in the form of words sometimes numbers like four three two six five, but the list went on till a clear new pattern formed repwacing the old won, where we certained the predicts had outcleared the witty widgets pawned by the edicts at local precints all anon those days just after the gray matters, when The They persecuted all something awesome.

JimJim the goosest bud I nearer loaved but severed from, mints you, I knewest more than sortid lives allowed, what with my condition pre gray matters and all, seeing all they wanted me to say, The They, and all. JimJim, insisted I forget but I retained forbothing in the white matter I maintained.

My dark matters, frothed and frayed from time to tims, but I keppersed a budget on them.

Allotted three ounces the Barleycorn and four pounds the Rye with a spot of smoke the day between us for dark thoughts in those gloomy hours after rapturous days and I only tongued of such dark matters with odders if the mood fit the tray served.

Keeping trash for gold, claimed the better half of the trade unions all bent on persevering rather than preserving and unity and sanity among the trip to the store mentality that soon brittled to old butter.

I fellowshipped with some want to be Christians still hopping on the post raptious rapture and sniped a few sneeds in the making but most fell to greed and cockhopping.

I never undersood the motive to yellow teeth while brushing. Panties smell great but underwear smear better.

You crept in unanswered to.

He’s always laughing.

The They’d comment in my company.
“He’s always laughing.”
“But he’s done nothing we wouldn’t do.”
“He drinks decaf coffee with nondairy creamer, please and thankyou all around.”
“He sucks on sugarfree candies, bow and courtesies all the town.”
“He manages on pill swallowing while the stock is low.”
“The laughing gets tiresome for me but if he’s not a harm to nobody including himself then we see no harm or reason to look down with frowns.”

Keep The They smiling. Keep The They smiling. I’d been born in to this world for this reason, almost. Oh, no, someone listens in.

Crapped in the woods, some graggled smell, read what you well ought to. A karmatic scent the cheap cheap of a sqwalking liver.

Mush have been a pancing fasing.

I eared of birds once.

The They, they slipped past unnoticed.

But I noticed.

No worries.

Could This Be Love (Section 2)

So I be sitting on the tram now rooominating on the voom voom of an insect vum damn near vomiting my self when all of a time the con sucker comes looking for sputniks. I taint got not but my spokes and my gestured whiles. So I say real calm with a jitter.

“I dropped my sputniks on the way up catchin late and all you hear.”

She poked realk uite like and ootered on to me the Passerby Law of 350.

Immediately unter rating I made a mad dash.

“You quote law to a good samaritan lady!”

I cumspurt real token like she need not hear it.

That made the toters on board real bread brew and they real reasoned then. We all got sport off that caldwell banker.

She left hunting.

Arriving at the selected distinction, I departed the tram and full forced for the lug and tackle sport. We’d arranged to pick up there.

Pit and Natalie waved me over the moment they saw me all meadow in the starlight such and such and I got real giddy. We jiggled a moment and the giggling stopped.

I thought Pit a relegated ninny the moment he opened his spotted mouth to talk but I jumped through hoops to pass him by.

Natalie and I had been through frozen tunnels together driving in the early days before the gray period and we knew well enough we’d never met in truth.

So this went down battered dean, the kutch being we must be home before the clock struck one and no man the wiser.

Pit the lookout and I the winter wacker, Natalie carried the team.

She shunted the path and I stealthied in and grabbed the snacks.

We crunched all hours that night on frisbees and cooks.

The canned sneeds, expired and tappered, went to the dogs, who immediately vummed, but they needed something poor snaps.

Fellows came by hard in old sporting days such as these, and we had things to do. People to see, as the essers said when they quit a public council.

Chaz, an old Willy dingo dresser from down under in old south west parts came west north west for a few parlès. It appeared from all congruent chain rules that a party from the north descending on the trappers might actually surprise a detail running cotton-wool for the mingos and the praders two week from Trapsday.

We cocked a derision.

We’d need Thomas for this little tram scan.

Swinging him up on the old polyfon bitzed him up a bit and he got social media with me for being a moving climber. I defensed my hopless cause of half bred social injustice birth defect origin story and he released me his griper.

For sooth, we objected ostensible, but more than often relied on the need to feed more than any thin wafer objection twinned us.

Like us said, americal happened so the nettle might wrap the rose and twine the vine so climb the castle walls to bear upon the cathead withdrawleds.

The loaf withdrawls hanged us something penniless.

Ratmen dingosnaps often revamped old storefronts to lure unwanted children for scraps and hides.

No compassion for the homeless then.

We all hid and rimmbled on the tride and true americano those days. A short of espresso in the boil of aquafiner and kool aid the raft down the dragon hole to softer times when a weed tumble tween the fingers kept us feeling fine.

Fine suited the fellows for as long as we could keep darling but we always heartached for something finer.

Loave was hard to find.

Something severed the connection between us. We wondered had it something to do with the gray matters of prior to the Law Abides of 350 and the fallout times.

Creaser Joe, or Harry Calves as we called him from time to time, played the inside and kept us up to score on the dimes.

“Kepper Calling Name sups and dines at the Bools and Black, Holland tunnel man if I ever once was.”

Steak to brow, he often fenced with the broad end of another doner’s fisticuffs and rarer the time he came up without the rotten meats.

Cold breezers, we called em. The S men left them for the upcrusters to find way to the sex dens for slave hours and torture tims.

This for the Failure to Breed Act of 350, an aim at the priders and the pirateers alike. Media bucannons we called them now.

Thomas came all strappy fellow and we sat to scrap about the common gut.

“Man must loave, ol’ spot.”

I heart faith aggied.

The term spoil had trusted with the think tank, and a sour face broke tween us. Long ago sadness wrangled our sorting souls and we drank amuck the silted water from leaking pipes we gathered aground old ruination by urbs where people once fammed.

“Kepper gave me a cool trap,” complained Harry Calves, “Just because I didn’t give him the propper penny he demon manned.”

Harry made a habit of clapping the kasher when cleaning the info from his vics and often cried forgiveness, per usual the cold breezers, then a swift kick to the breezers, hence the name Creaser Joe, for the punch left in his britches after sows.

I never tangled the bits and pieces with the crunchers and the likes who all too often had a bit of the row in dem.

Monic piece of ashes, we called them, kept them swaying in the winds of change, never made no heafty notes but they’d one day go out with the heafties sure shifting promsies.

That mush sure no doubt, we counted.

When we did forboth, it came up something rotten. The touch between us tarnished the shonship somtin bad and we often broke off for more than a touch tween us.

I remember when I stopped forbothin with Harry Calves all together, he kept insistin we try fistin, so I let him go there with some other chap. I watched for long as I could gut and eventually vummed all over dem.

We never spoke if ever on the matter and now kept to the 411 and the 211 and the drunken bralessness, but I dare say I quandried over the matter of loave with him these days in secret heartstrings of course, never spoke.

Could This Be Love (Section 1)

The great quall coo shows came rushing out of time and the call made ages ago upon the hour of our hands unbound approached fast now.  I reached into a sachel built of lash spears and tea leaves hewn with sandal rope, while racing for the air tram, pulled out a twisted bar of soap tendrils and adheared to the security detail’s order I remain in my place only long enough to have released the sud spawns.

God smiled upon us that day.  All claimed I’d done it and that I deserved any of the responsibilities pending, but in that day I shared the credit reason not withstanding whilst standing with.

A preoccupation with pragmatic chess players and logical breeding rituals invaded my mind as I pointed out to the guard a spot of trash lingering beneath a chair outside the boarding station.  As he ran to snatch it up and dispense with it, blaming me for the uproar among the crod, I rushed onboard without further notice.

Balance required an ounce of tarnished symmetry these days, where the center never met in the middle and cowards often found honour among the brave.  A desperation lingered in the panties of linen closets and adulterers sniffed the air, often wondering if they’d made a wrong turn at the start.

I shared the burden, having loved out of wedlock, spurious in deed, lusted for men, I’d not the opiated awareness ecstatic enough to wonder about weather debts with.  Campfires, marshmallows, chocolate kisses, and butterflies pinned to corkboard, the wine flowed in honied waves during the tweens.

But I digress.

Foundries, the basis for economic progress, relinquished only enough food to maintain an average weight of carrying the average load long enough for a work day average of a four hours, due to what the government called over population concerns.  People dropped like flying vommit vums.

Insects of the heights.  S men. The essers, we clad in cotton-wool, called them.  And the matter refrained from spoken tongue, save for the hidden language we’d gathered to gettin.

Andyroo, my dearest campanioin, at a distance of three quarters the future and ten tenths the past but never nearer always far from me crossing state lines never a question of matter, planted a program runner in my inner most secret chamer.

I digested with a crust of breath.

Fire and water.

Dirt and life.

The ashes nested in our skin after the fallout of 346.

They call it a date estimation, due to the lack of computerized information.  We still have numbers like 911 and 411 and 211 and report drunken bralessness.

I live for the cuntdripping honey sweating cumspurting nights of 357 ,still.  I do remember, like they were yester days.

I jestered, but then shit got real.

Night were all that existed in those d-days.

Capper John became John Barleycorn and then shit got Real Real.

Damn, Shit got near Royal.

We called him King half the time.

I never knew him.

That was before ya’ll reappeared, or started to anyway and we had to explain all this madness all over again.