DaDa too

[masterofNone]

DaDa too

Arched, yet squealing in sunshine the wingnut flew silently beneath the fabric. Jumping, spinning, waxing, shining rain solidly refused boundless intervention. Badly bent, the wax flew along as though assigned to the daily posts of forever more. Wingnut knows of barlows and bellows. Of the philosophy of the winds and cracker-jack spent youth of running in the sprinkler-made mud. Waxing and waning, shining and distorting, we are as clean as silver sunshine and golden storms. Sporks for pudding. It reveals itself. Sometimes up, never down. The wind blows eastward, backwards, round and round. See the man? Ha ha. No! Out of the blue she said "walk as though you had a pupose... and make your bed". The card fluttered to the back of the blue. Withered, sandy, shaded from time itself and sad, the curved skin told of others. Wingnut followed the wind. Backwards, round and round. Out of the blue, waxing and waning, squealing sunshine wignut found the floor. Down, down, down, cracker jack youth, sprinkled in mud. Up came hope. Twisting, turning, yearning to fly the parking cone speaks. Wading through seas of butter flipchart glass, parking cone screams aloud in his thoughts of collagen. hope made mess. muddy messy missy. Flip, flop, snap the sprinkler came- rainbow sprinkles and lucky charms.

lollipop rings, weaves round the cone. Parks are homes for squirrels plump with nuts, and sparrows winged upon air.

Buttah, it was all like buttah. Air so thick you could slice it. Choke. Like buttah through a blade. Cone flying, sparks. Fade. Impression. And, seeing it for what it was, wax fell back into a steady and purposeful beating. Through the sparks and up, beating, pushing, striving skyward. Shiney drops of dawn and dew dappled the bedframe below, bouncing springs like a forest. Off ahead a gap in the fabric and brown. Brown shone like a diamond to wingnut. Combustible. Bombastic. Superfantastic. Purposefully beating in its diamond shrine. Yet leaving muddy footprints in time. Waning and wading, treading lightly, however clumsy. Divine. Splat trees were vertical rivers of diamonds, deltas of emerald leaves and sapphire skies.

pink pearly drops of rose dew.
amethyst eyes
soft white bunny ears.

the golden storm had come.

The fabric torn, wind tossed and tumbling, the two wove down to the sheltering grass. Again the rain lay on. Down below the shear, too near the pebbles and the barleycorn, within a breath of the soil, whiptorn and tumbling. A tempest above in the brown and out. Wax spun and squinted in the distance. Above the brown, the tossing and the turning great engines of fury bellowed "Good night!" in voices that ripped sky from thunder. King Kong fireflies dance the moonlit struggle of their deviated paste. All is not lost for the gumball machine flies through the syrup air. Filament in moonlight. Dancing between the curves of suggestion. Perhaps. Perhaps not. Torn. Indicative of that dark brown diamond unravelling. Perception gathered, waning in the twilight, soft enough for a lover's kiss, but yet it wasn't enough. It was never enough. "Listen, Wingnut, to the champagne flutes in the distance"

Gum. Drop. Gum. Drop.

Shaft of moonlight scattered, twirling, weaving dark mystic tales of smoke and nevermore. Glass eye of the storm twinkling of impishness- it saw where the bended river carved their names in the mud. the sparks of the heavens traced the hills, lit afire with the echoes of wishes laid down to the dust. the ancient breath of time drew slowly in, lingered on release.

Short flash to the east. sand hissed in breezy scatter.

The eye, swimming, danced bright with a hundred rainbows. Below the dung beetles were squatting above their treasure and drinking to a days good work as the weather darkened. Liquid drearyness spiraled in lengthening shadows and stooping chitenous shoulders. Bombastic. Fantastic. Rain, like missiles of quicksilver, began to plow the powdery soil sending the toilers scurrying for sound and sturdy shelter. It had begun and wax was worried. Shy not from the sparks of heaven. Embrace the lengthening shadows that fall dourly on the quicksilver diamond shine; tears brimming in amethyst eyes, rendered speechless. Two roads crossed. Quick smile, repose.

In the West the sun is setting, to come full circle round to the East. Just over the horizon, as daylight touches earth, it was there that you first spoke my name.

Bombastic, fantastic; frightened, enlightened. Wignut stopped and watched the fireflies. Beetle bore down on his treasure, protecting it and hiding it from the jealous flyers above. The front, whirling beyond in the brown, the diamond brown, would be swirling for a long while yet. The hum of wignut's flivver drummed on the ears of the crowded overhang, and lower, much lower, the thudding and thrumbing could be felt in ones bowels more than heard. The puddle thrumbing mind numbing of the approach of the mowers. Death monsters they were, cutting the green blades before they could turn wild and hide the earth below.

Lofty peaks of molehills, valleys of bladed meadows, muddy oceans above, all hid the dung beetles world. Yet, the world was shaped by where the green blades could grow. Wild green blades softened the impact made by quicksilver and giants.

Without their rooted foundation, Beetle's treasure would be lost to the winds.

The time was now to decide what to do. I Want You, But I'm Not Giving In This Time....(studying, msg me if u wanna talk) says: ? Have I Become The Enemy? says: yeah? I Want You, But I'm Not Giving In This Time....

Words, like neon bursts of nothing raced across the brown. Staccato hashmarks of darkness streamed with a high pitched squeal. Black dots flying in tight formation, unaffected by the wind shear or the pressure gradient or the thrumbing of the monstrosities above, spelled out the insane jibberish of obsesssion. Beetle cast a wary eye upwards and tried vainly to find meaning there... hopeful. Tap, tap, tap, tap. The eternal hum of life awakening. Wignut sees Beetle, coveting his hoard, wincing at noises. Tap, tap, tap, tap. Studying. Wignut is not the enemy of time. Sparkle, spackle, it unwinds. Quicksilver neon signs lighting the way. Zap.

Shock of neon. green fire lightning

Beetle's jealous fliers bounce. flight paths become sunken treasures. watch them float back to the world. hold fast.

Bear in mind dodges red herrings being tossed, fallen like suspended honeydew drops. bubble. pop.

the glass eye blinks. Windy fire breathes from the bowels of my imagination, locking in on the true dissection of imagined memories running rampant with clandestine sea monkeys who have cluttered their lair with roses and potpie trays left behind by the visiting angels from the fifth star I saw last night in my sleep while dreaming of my awakened state. From lips as red as blood, and a face of stark coal and ivory, meaning issued forth making all the brown clear as dawn. Brass baubbles fell from leaftop in solomn celebration, tumbling to ward the soil to be caught and thrown. All wishes made real. Seed sown. Sadness henceforth unknown as the tempest spun away and away. It will fall or it will be falling.

Bear in mind growls, suspended in dreams, in its hibernation; unaffected by the tap, tap, tapping upon the rocks below.

Fire lingers, however, in the distant hills of the ursine imagination. Taps change over to footsteps. Footsteps change over time. Time lingers in the cloak of the midsummers moon.

a breeze touches fur. Winter is here.

Now. The pale face emerges from the gloom. Eyes bright, tap, tap, tap, it looks around. It spies beetle hovered greedily over its quicksilver neon prize. Something awry, yet somehow perfect, somehow predictible. Beetle's not giving in this time. No, not yet.

Fifth star angels begin to sing chorus, the pale face among them. The cooling of winter making rosy cheeks and puffs of breath plume out like the imagination. The song, aflight, seeks heavenly homeward through leaves and past branches and rusty spring trees. Wax tilts his large ears to hear as he lights his wee pipe and thinks calmly of the morrows hard work. His eyelids click clack in slow 3/4 time. Below him the tap, tap, tap.... tap. The day is near done. The flash, alight, big chasms of flourecense. Shine bright! Willow whispers shaking the dark with the clouds of mental disarray.

Help!

My kiss has become my past. Alone and disheartened. But as cream eagles must fly.

Wind!

Fly among the buttercup screams of last night. Twisting in the water in the cold afternoon breeze.

Cry!

It all screams so silently with tears streaking down flushed cheeks.

I dream.

I wake.

I start it all again... Arched, yet squealing in sunshine the wingnut flew silently beneath the fabric. Jumping, spinning, waxing, shining rain solidly refused boundless intervention. Badly bent, the wax flew along as though assigned



The end.
('ze, please move to completed stories? thanks.)