Here is a short tale about seven brothers and what happened to them.
A very long time ago there were seven brother who lived in a village. Over time, one by one, the brothers died, until finally only one was left. Eventually, he also died of old age.
Those who knew the last of the brothers, felt his loss, and those who knew him hardly at all were less touched by his passing. That’s the way it goes. Of course this all happened long after the nine legged horse ran along the ridge just beyond the village, and Farmer Brown’s largest pumpkin hatched into a scarlet peacock that carried off Miss Margery. Well, some villages are like that.
Samuel Pepys, wrote John Evelyn, was ‘universally beloved, hospitable, generous, learned in many things’ and ‘skilled in music’. John Evelyn, wrote Pepys, ‘must be allowed … for a little conceitedness; but he may well be so, being a man so much above others’. Pepys’s assessment of Evelyn was made early in their relationship, in 1665, and Evelyn’s assessment of Pepys was made on the day that his fellow diarist died, in 1703. So rest the reputations of our two great recorders of Restoration England: Pepys, the middle-class son of a tailor, was a man of the people; Evelyn, the heir of a country gentleman, was a notch or two above.
A Dadaist Fairy Tale
People notch Poppies on zero trees – spy silver buttercups;
He wrote a day’s miles like this.
There in the middle class … in six sieves was a fiance’s consciousness. The person I loved, slept and learned.
In each Lyndon recorder, a constantly yellow pasta man by the forest was written in prose.
He or she is a “universal need” in John’s generous ocean. There was a middle class … the heart of the groom was in six corners.
Our musical relationship with rust is ours to dance –
let time hammer out the edges of our days.
The reason why he wanted to make this work the strongest was the claim that this research was not a controversy, but actually a taboo.
The descent brings mystery,
So the dead apparition of Vermilion Motion is born –
This is an atmospheric aria of forgotten tranquility, that comes to us from a lost age of magic and wonder.
Why was there a yellow stick?
The remaining creatures move only one.
I want to rust.
A glittering and long shining jungle writes taboos in the palm of your hand, as I thank my friends.
A good gentleman,
In that, and quite deeply –
finds a comfortable experience of bread-lid bedrooms.
Erythrocyte pebbles light pyres at the feet in my sand. Who is in each area?
Those that say they love lovers, and the swamp.
This is an atmospheric aria of forgotten tranquility, that comes to us from a lost age of happenstance and enchantment.
Now Go – this is the search query corner class –
ask Other Eyes, the tailor threads fate in your pockets.
As fluttering hands weep silently,
She relents on condition,
that he not travel unaccompanied –
shadows seen carving
the lines of the mountains with glaciers,
protected by a wooden box,
lay next to a smaller one of tin,
a package tied with faded ribbon
cut from some forgotten heart.
Forest smiles, useful for loneliness –
first of all,
He will lead this box of sleeping lyres
and do this –
this is four of seven,
the only protector,
feathers dancing with moonlight mist.
The stranger wanted to be left alone,
so he kept moving, moving,
moving unconsciously carrying
his first valentine
as the solitary farm-house,
filled with ravens
playing fiddles merrily,
recedes into memory .
That is his so so sewing,
don’t you think;
for if a rock-star falls
alone in the woods,
does anyone sing the blues ?
OBSERVATIONS & COMMENTARY NOTES
Free Verse Format
Often silent archaeology
wish forbidden bells’ secrets –
frosty pagan puppeteers.
Byzantine roundabout body
diffidently drains year –
trail calls bones again .
Pamphlet addition paints
illuminated STOP –
a field kitchen cockatoo denouement.
Defective foot fallacy- orange
denotation constructing emotional appeal –
at the bottom of the paper pool
the Weary Detective pens slogans.
In nearby Eindhoven,
Never miss………………. the movement –
Cycle the Van Gogh.
This piece of Broken Folklore includes a Dadaist Fairy Tale Analysis, and accompanying Asemic Collage Illustrations. Any resemblance between the characters/events in this tale and any persons, living or likewise, is an archetypal synchronicity . Please refrain from leaving any significance & empty popcorn containers under your seat.
I spent half a century seeking an abandoned ship. There is a fog of forgetfulness here. It is used by those without names to wake another day. Snakes slide and shake smoothly along this point of the muddy bank. In the midst of a steep river, the sunset has long since gone, leaving but a hint of vermilion colouring rusted sky at the bleeding horizon. The wounded line darkens into dusk as an old barge chugs silently farther and farther into the muddy waters of the inlet.
It’s one thing to have the dogs chasing birds along the river bank, it is another to seek a rusting dream that hangs in time’s muddy currents. In winter’s eyes – pessimistic safety is a grey stone.
After that man arrives there, across from the landing, the aircraft lifts, seeking a new time zone. His beautiful country is in a state of a creative trance, shambling towards uncertain future – paved hopes turn to broken asphalt . Poorly dressed children sit, in a morning lit by the sun of sorrows, just waiting for a glimpse of the barges moving towards their unattainable dreams – the towering buildings of the great city.
Miles and lifetimes away, the sunlight spreads a rich glow of entitlement across the water, painting with gold the mirrored windows of the haughty skyscrapers that look down on the river.
People of these towers were rising for the second time in the morning, one of the methods of The Long Dreamers. They never dream of barges and ragged children sitting along muddy banks.