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 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 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 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.