Nightstare on Vellum Sheet

by grimbeau

Farmer Jones


Is it sleep wakeshiftime?

Only just before clocksays nine, a warm still heavy evening groove, musky dusky, smell of drying hosed down earthy foodstuffs, traffic air settling taxi rank , no breeze or trees. Still heavy yield summer night. Ninetheless…

My kaftan is wet; music grates, wringing it makes me feel warmer than bevor: it shouldn’t. Trampstink: that’s it; stale groin, summer stale. out of conditioner. Bouquet of ersatz snow drop.

Go jump in a vacant lake. Can’t walk. Again. Still can’t walk. Gurn and bear it. Dense. You brought it all on yourselves monitors read say so no-one else is to blame. To blame. No-one else? There be scapegoats available ! Surely… go make someone up then.

You’ll do. A reader. Now, what are you like, Reader? Read…err.

‘Would you like your kaftan hung up outside?’

‘How can I reach it in the morning? Hang it up on the door…but even’

Cannot hang out and retrieve your kaftan? Liar. You could if you tried a bit, but I get your point about leaving shit around. Look at it. Everyfuckingwhere. Have a cider and forget it, you sullen self-pitying sack of soppy cyprian spuds from Syracuse…

‘Pass me the tepee, I’m unsettled.’

‘In a minute, I’m doing something’

Nothing comes of nothing. Something then, better than nothing; unless nothing is something. Back to square one, or the same one that where we were. Were. A funny place you always return to, even now; or, then. Slipped it your notice the slipping. Don’t slip: you don’t notice yet you know, don’t you know. How does it feel when you are not it, tell me? Prithee counsel me, I impish floor you. Prithee finger food.

‘Voulez vous volleyball?’

Volestranglers of the world delight?