Category Archives: Stream of Consciousness


His head was a bush from which erupted a thousand birds each having dark and phantasmagorical colors, bursting into rainbows of light, water, dust and fire. Intertwined in this bush they swirled in a whirlpool, jovial as a midsummer knight’s cat’s whiskers, descending into valleys and voices of death gods.

And the Senator, now retired, whose horses were afraid of elephant riding witches, put his feet up against the sun and screamed and smoked and wore leather jackets with dark lipped, high crumbling hopes, dwelling in grammar and specializing in masks and breakfasts as he typed.

She therefore throws her arms around the Deer now, and lets it embrace, but writes on the piece of past He owns, tying knots and colliding body parts. To Her tapes and drives He delivers packets of commodities and means of trivial entertainment. Both sit, exchanging sounds, interpreting personality traits via binary support, sharing miserable periods of learning, hurling words into one body, sharing visions of slumber and while She likes visiting places, the places visit Him. Some from the future, foreboding. He eventually, inevitably does a somersault above the voyaging ships of the pumping organ and lands in a universe of colorlands and soundscapes where the ocean waves leap, laugh and jest, sizzling like a thousand burning ants and strong like antlers of a centuries old dragon. Rising above Her, deliciously sour symphonies manifest, but He is ok with the typewriter lying unused by him if no one else produces words with it either. But He’s thrusting and thirsting for roger and lust, hinting naiveté. But of small pink lips, black hair accessories, imagined beings from a foreign nation and of blue skies he knows nothing.

So She looks to the Senator again in sorrow and despair, her fox like agility diminishing, opens a door and falls into a rising pit, and pulls a rope but grows still as a cat’s scrotum in a winter night’s icy gale and stagnant like hair on an ice cream vomit, cute and tall above Her senses. Her eyes have smoke in the joint of His body of art work out which He does for Her performance, commending Her frequently burned hair but, changing like seasons, twisted like His brain or black brass wires, like that of a creature from a foreign nation, riding a strawberry shake.

Many journeys away over miles of hut filled valleys and smog covered terrains he sees a faint trace of a dream’s sketch form and dissolve, so he persists solemnly, mutely but she squeals sweetly, bellowing like wind upon which sails the silent leaf of his self. The leaf lands in that bush, which perpetuates.


PS. He, She, The Senator and the Deer.



Filed under Musings, Stream of Consciousness