As of about now I shall be away from my blog spoiling my dear wife, Shirl. I estimate that by the end of June she will likely tire of such indulgence. In the meantime, I leave you with a dose of refined lunacy and wish one and all the very best of good fortune.
In the Twilight Days of Forbidden Smiles, when rarely sober, inevitably beer bellied, polished cranium torturers wearing just decaying leather aprons, more often than not lied, suggesting of a quivering tethered scapegoat that he or she would do well to, “Make it easy on yourself and confess” the hearts and minds of inspired blacksmiths and simple God-fearing commoners knew little of the dark future, even less of the darker past.
“Gift me tonight as a dream without a scream and you’ll be free of me come tomorrow” begged the brother of the dozen lepers. He, the one who had lost his acned youth to miraculous abrasions, malt whiskey and a portly yet adorable girl named Cuckoo Alice. Alice, the one who was allergic to peanuts, was immune to daylight, inventions of purpose and supposedly motivational Dutch uncle’s rhetoric.
Unspoiled, she of blameless nocturnal fame most times wore a courageously meagre leopard skin skirt, faux white leather thigh high, high heeled boots. Fishnets on weekends and public holidays a must. The blind spouseless and the ‘in-denial’ clergy treasured Alice’s company. She tolerated theirs.
Upon a final lamentably overdue deliberation, it is said a mythical Pope dying of salivation offered up prayer that Alice might find it within herself to kiss him bon voyage, all the time overlooking the stark fact that she was, always had been, uninclined to pucker up.
Come the dreadful day when nothing mattered anymore, some still carried on promenading the parallels of latitudes, a habit befitting of the damned. Alice who had always believed rainbows defined infinity, and unlike the brother of a dozen lepers, must never be overlooked, even when the skies were empty of clouds for years on end. Notwithstanding, that brother of a dozen lepers had always presumed his own afterlife would be unmolested if he concentrated just upon strutting the edges of the fiery craters.
Those were the crazy days when instead of meandering in mystified flocks, black sheep especially, hunted down lethargic lions, thus giving the lionesses and their litter of cutest cubs a little space within which to relax. Crazy days they might have been, yet to those who remember queuing for fresh air and branding irons, they were the glorious times of adequate anarchy upon an effervescent Earth.
To enhance the absurdity of this jigsaw short of a few pieces, I feel compelled to add Kevin Ayres song, ‘Joy of a Toy’. A long-time personal favourite of mine.