BARN OWL METAPHOR
Mel Nuth-Traxor zips around on the air smoking a cigarette in the mornings. Holding a Diet Coke in one hand some hundred feet or so above the ground. Mel, though, likes to peruse the mountainsides a little. Zips over them at the speed of a Mach-5 fighter jet smoking a cigarette sipping Diet Coke, snow-capped mountains all a-flying by, humming idly “Lus Foose Nicht Flehr du Plem” to himself, the song which ends when it begins and then repeats indefinitely. Though, this is not a story. Mel Nuth-Traxor is a metaphor for the bleeding heart, living, being alive. The mountains are a metaphor for simulated rhyme, and the Diet Coke is an advert. ¶ What goes on next then is the continuation of the meeting apart, where gluff nazor destrock rumbles down the street in a tank and makes all the little bunnies scared. They hop on into their rabbit holes and divide per sleek the sail. Out on formy lotions, slip-n-sliders make a range of motions. The cross-hatching pattern shading their necks in the sunlight does the spare. Ranted on into oblivion the croft-in-hop delicatessen specs preach number truth to the alphabets. Do not get paid but a little for their words. Maybe become hitched on some feedback loop that they’re good enough, which they are, but they should look for another line of work. ¶ Loud ambro-infused chusex smoothy-brains dope themselves up in the bathroom to Puerto-Rican pop and dis-hale, phase out of minor weathered states; they clam up inide and then release and all about them is the audible surge of water ripplets going wayward, catching the prime. Ambithiomy once said some axiomatic aphorism about this sort of thing, but I forgot. I cannot say either way whether the soul inside my shoes is the reason I dance so good or if it is some skill I actually possess. I know something is going on sometimes, with my hair in my face and expression feral and staring back into the void lime of the bartender’s eyes who’s just said my card has been declined a second time, because I am sorry. That was somewhat a while ago, but still holds true. I am or was in the lost hatch of auf wiedersehen’s lasting touches, when I said it to the man in the park who’d gotten me my simple fix and never saw the strange dude again. Or the girlfriend whose heart I’d broken and never saw again. Or the tumultuous pry ambidronous booze waterfalling over my pink matter from a cartoonishly opened crown of my head as I looked stuporously mid-response to the person who’d knocked into me on my way downstairs, whom I’d never see again. Itching to pad-lock the ultimate intimacy of my own heart so the frieze can collapse I can wake but in due time rolling over in my own grave. Perhaps too soon. Perhaps not in time. Wondering altogether altogether altogether what was wrong.
But time perfects imporia. The leyline grove beneath us withers in the winter snow but is beautiful that way, too, and serves as the access point for the rabbit-holing bunnies trying to escape the surface’s tankshake. We’d climb in after you if we could fit, because maybe then we’d be able to score some drug we could do. But our chances aren’t likely and the world is possessed; we might as well walk back home empty-handed.
The claustrophobic vent crawling Agent Exit as a responder firstly had to do was not kind to him; he’d ripped up his arm a bit on a loose screw over some ductwork and cried out, “Hollllly fuck” while the time hadn’t really been right, because then he was over the operation’s bottom line: a set of hostile Amorinian poos who wore cheap garter belts and acted all the time. But whose hearing was keen as ever, and because of the cry deteceted enough so that the mission was a bust and everybody—villains and heroes alike—had had to go home and call it a night. ¶ You want to know the reason nothing happens and you surf well—do you? You cross-bar the exception to the rule and become a fool for kicks. To impress the imaginary friends you’d had as a child who came back that night for one last farewell before they dissipated and the dream went up, too, in smoke. Well because I understand I’ll tell you that I love you. I’ll have to get you to the airport in time to make to kick off this hatching plight. The plain leaves for an alternate dimension where some of this actually makes sense and all of our lives are stories. Otherwise, poems recompense the dying light and day-n-night the postulated phrase to portend something vaguely good but also vaguely strange on the horizon. Way worse than wet sheets of paper fold or let go. Way worse than the dollar bill being indignant for the slot in the vending machine. Way worse than who-knows. But all of us wade in. To the waterhole to swim some. Therein music plays you have to be inside the water to hear. It’s quite beautiful. Songs with no name but melodies going all the time. ¶ Tripped up for year after year and asked what you want most, who on the other hand sanctumed the sweetish call-on-line-four for a problem you couldn’t rope and then met though not-so-secretly the self of creation and the self of lies and the self of mysticism and the self on the windshield and the self in the shopping cart as a child surrounded by fluorescent lights while mother pushed you along the grocery store aisles, and the self in Paris and the self at night—and none of them seemed all that responsive. They just quietly listened, each one, or else were just being quiet politely. Trying not to let the first words last-light, but too fast too often giving up it seemed on the manner by which listening was apprised. You wondering what is going on unaffixed to the way there is a heart on the line. You being the object of the end of the thing you are reading, not knowing why. Except, here come the barn owls just over the branches: Here comes the moon in its seconds-sparing clouded sea of reflective light. What will you do now? Listen to the barn owls; they’re taking over. Hoot—hoot-hoot! Oh, isn’t that nice? Isn’t the way that they perch just…