The next part of the story

This is from an old dream that floundered for a while but then came back stronger than ever...

Very far away from the first part of this story, but too close for comfort were two eyes staring out of the peanut butter of life with looking and not keeping in tune.

And then suddenly, self-consciously on fire in the mind’s eye, the middle of the day swapping, and seagulls calling too, came this that went away.

One moment more and the next moment will come, and here it comes full of this...”Oh if I could but fly another foot...but I should have brought a wheelbarrow for all this sun,” thought Miss Pretty to herself but no one was there to listen to her but herself. “And I wonder where I put the honey.”

Thoughts like these came and went in the thronging crowd that passed by.

And smoke dancing about from the charcoal grill next door brought the smell of sausages cooking.

And they were smoke-dancing too and not to be disturbed with a strange fascination that came about sniffing the yarn:

As Miss Pretty stepped outside of this story with a black herbal tea the fruit bees came to trouble her and buzzed around brandishing things, like instant replica cameras that recorded through crystals all that could be thought; and they carried wallpaper underneath the bedroom door to remind her not to come home too late.

Funny strange to beat up this when what she was waiting for was riding the escalator up to the top shelf where all she had before was waiting and all she could ever want could never take the place of this: that this idiom of gravity fell out of the dustbin labels that can never be found when the fruit bees are around.

Ah, the fruit bees.

But now she must step back into the yarn, it must be so in the largess for the broadside or she will drown away never to be found again.

"Come, Miss Pretty, look through this window to see what isn’t there, for we have dates that simmer in the sun and barracuda timing with ideograms in the points of rust to shake your gates as you yawn," said the X-ray dog selling figs.

"And, here’s an ice cream for your friend come to live in the broom cupboard under the stairs where the strawberries ripen, so don’t live on the edge anymore where the ice is a curtain for your awakening, come, look in this window to see what’s there where your breath draws a crowd of ingenuous followers to stand beside you and hold your hand.

And of all that’s gone before let this be what has come after that we can have all that we can be in the dawn of our redemption, and so saying it is 50% off in the morning’s breeze; oh come, it is just for you.

So many in the morning’s breeze of the mothers who would go there with all that clutter that speaks too much and never holds the tongue.

And a receipt for the summer time, there where the wind doesn’t blow too big to get you where the daisies turn over in the hollow grove and the life expectancy is a prognosis unmade and never said to find some returning where there is none though the clouds come deep and thick to marry this and then return it to the sea on the rocks where the moon shines in the old photograph that was lost somewhere far ago, an image of reality of a sunburn that fades to become a legend where 500 buy the 50% in a morning’s breeze forever.

And this is who we shall be to take this light to break your tongue on the steal and dare one whoop inside thunder, the other there where all’s fair, with the green bottle of the moon crossing our path.

Oh do speak English please.

We have not moved to be still here, no, there is where we’re not, but we will still be here, as the river follows its own path to appease the hungry fishermen with their poles to thank you not and ask for more and then crack the nuts that come in from the sea.

So this is who we shall be under the bridge and up the tree; and they say we have lost our touch.

Oh towers they build so high that fall from the sky, like it or not to stay here only as long as we can stand it and then move on; this is who we have come to be.

And now shall we go down to the great eating away with its mouth all closed over and its eyes agog?

Or shall we stay at home by the flaming brilliance of heartland security?

These are the transitions we are offered in the jungle of who knows me where I go and hold on to your hair it’s a big show.

Come, we will appease this of who we shall be," said the X-ray dog running out of breath.

"I'm not sure if I should," said Miss Pretty.

"But let us not be indolent here where the wind is fair to hold onto the tree and not fall down even so or ever so as the case may be with one foot on the ground and the other lost forever.

And then call this what you will for we have no light left to see, to see so far; and then within the dark with the birdies gone to sleep we shall retire thank you ever so much.

This is what we said to present our case to believe us in the inebriated dust of our sleep when we’re not awake anymore way down in the hold; or just gnawing on a good bone.

And we didn’t need the ghosts to help us there neither.

I do not think we could be more here than there even if we tried to be in plain sight; but the angel feathers are blowing away and I am at an end with them.

But wait, here comes another one on the wind this way swept.

Does this mean you haven’t given up on me and that you’re hiding where you can’t be found in plain sight?

Come to me plainly, and not in hypnotism, and let us adventure before it’s too late.

Let us be seen together, and I will photograph you for all to see in plain sight of their noses in front of them to show you who they are so they’ll know of you in their religious arcade of self belief where the monkeys fight and squander the precious moments of light.

We met briefly, and then later, briefer still, you came to say goodbye.

Or was that the deep hole I found myself in when the bottom fell out of the spiritual equanimity?

But these analysing thoughts are what did it, for you are not thought, and thoughts can’t go there where you are in that deepest place of all.

Oh the grave, the grave, the bloody grave.

I am hypnotised by the strange beliefs that do not serve of the thought processes that evolve from some squatting duck in the dark.

That like some old dark belief that still cries to be free so long after the cause has gone away it remains in some corner of the soul to get out.

Ah, the lonely infant in hurt, the child in pain, the crazy adolescent, the madman in the wild, and the long decades of denial where life was on hold, the wings clipped to the breakdown of all reason until the heart cried out and kept on crying that the child is in need of comfort.

What would make me come alive after twenty one thousand days waiting in the rain for that comfort?

Yes, even I deserve to go home," said the X-ray dog finally running out of steam.

Miss Pretty ran for the exit of this story, but the door slammed in her face; and then she found she was stuck here.

Image from Pixabay

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Here is the first part of this story: https://steemit.com/steemitbloggers/@wales/utopia-of-the-blue-moon-steemitbloggers-contest