Strings

Stories don't have happy endings. Stories do not have endings, you'll live with them unraveling from you like string. These are the words of the fox. 

It isn't all that narrow to contemplate a frog leaping twice over to another lily in the valley where the  posies shy away from the poppies that grow and fumigate black phosphor to the tendrils of another boy. The same that came here when he was five and spent his time in the broken box. Lid splintered the finger on a grey cracked paint, like the time the Doves swept the cross gates to the northern entrance of the bookenheim and the tendrils locked their billows under a rocky enclave. The same man who took the phosphor gate to the underhill and spake him black with tulip tunneled caracas. His termite black hair wavering like a brill bont kebab. The same ill fated pontificat stole the armchair and talked all night before the lark came to the window and pattered a crap on the sill. The same billy boy that told his ending before it began.

A grave old man sits in an archair, spitting dunkirks at the lightwell. He caved in when the Chinerra came with their charm and their crocus bindings and lively wakers.  A tip of the glass for the dead is enough to brake the silence that they bring to the room when sober. Its not like the sign is in the bathtub today, there are too many turns of the bat to bring the cabbage to gribald cat. The tap black man came and pointed his microphone with a turning spit. To cook the interviewee until tender and wrap in a bap with barbequeue sauce. The very same Sam that spent his luck on a girl that cut his hair. It isn't that the night crowds out the day, its that the bleating beats the sheep dog who is at a loss for what is going on.

All the same things are here again and the spotted gribald looks again at his work and spends a thought for the other (w)hole that comes in from the wanderers that passed and came to the spot where he made a unification of difference. He broke that paradox when he made marionette and painted it with honey. It grew mould and  came to life. We are mouldy sacks of dew. Home to crawlies and parasites that burrowed into his head and started a family. Oblivion is just a word for the fundaments. The fundaments are those that fund the governments. Its a stapleton bake that creates the conditions for a black mail sunday roast. A normal day. Tomorrow is black. Black isn't a colour. Its a hue. The base case. From which things emerge briefly before falling back into oblivion. Sam and Sara. Eloped to Trieste.