No Rest for These Old Bones.

No rest for these old bones. One’d been walking and waiting like a drifter-turned-sailing shrub upon the sea of sanded grit. I had just sat and watched. Weren’t not a concern of mine should they have their share of old mother earth’s burden. Everyone should carry it, for there rest is not for any bones, none least for these old bones.

Nice when the holes of that crisp-old skin of glass whistled I suppose. At least I have Mittle, my little. The crushing feeling, when it’s your head that’s cracking from the inside to make a cave, like a skull will once those old bones have had enough.

Sun. Strange one is that sun, funny one too, but not weird for its outward faces. Plain and clear what it meant, and that was to punish you should life offer you some little too much goodness at best. Balance meant the most after all that, of course, balance is equilibrium of the best strain, not that I know what a word so long as that means.

I heard about a leader once. He was a strange one, but really in the extraspective. Spoke with thorns and old lisps like a man mad on what he knew but knew it best anyway. This isn’t supposed to be making sense, he told, but sense was what you made it, I knew.

There rolls another shrub, dusting over the prints of paws and signature of feet or all else. Sign your paw, a good one said. He was something, no stranger to dancing, but now he was dead.

Into the shower? Necessary I guessed. Oh – rolls another shrub hand. Makes your ears bleed when the belly belches or the burning gets you there. But I feel shaded best where there’s an arch of old stones set by old men in old thrones for old bones need it.

Worth is the worst, to be bet with, I’d guess. What’s meant by that, I’m less affirmed, but you’d better be the best to be worth the rest or something. I jest. Oh – a crow’s nest. Or is it a raven? I’ll be frank, you’ll be hearing, because what you’re reading ain’t worth nearing. Your eyes to see. Or your ears to hears. Hare! Hello there.

Mittle had broken her nice strings. Rattling inside was the blessed thing. Damn that thing. Rattling and whistling when the outscapes decided they’d rather not. Creating landscapes without hand. Capes aren’t around yet. They were around.

She’s coming up the road now. Name of old cartilage. Sister of mine, once, or next. I made the first wave, from under my shade. But she didn’t make a wave back. A wave’s a strange one too – bizarre in the best of both ways. Ricketing up or side or down or side on dune or sea or air or sky. Sky waves were the oddest, bet.

Waved back now! But interest is elsewhere. Out there, is, something, something, is, out there. Like when a train rattles your head because of its friend rattling by like old young Mittle.

Hi. Aye, that’s right, that’s it, hi. Directions? I don’t know. Ain’t much to show – isn’t much, that goes. Rather, I wish I’d learnt how, but registering isn’t taught by cows. You can’t leave yet. But the shade’s mine. I won’t regret if you try something I’ll eat your eyes. Laugh. Chuckle too. Now your name before mine, now, now. Can’t give out – how did you know. That’s not me. Wasn’t me, won’t be me. Can’t be me. I… hope its not me.

Woken up a while since. Same spot, same day. I swear by what I say, no rest for these old bones. Poor old girl. Flesh is sweet, or at least sweet to make sweets from. Was a lot left once, a scavenging rat told me. Green as can be, he said. Then it was black, eerie. But more still to give him home, if death was on his back he’d have done it again. One third or something dead and everyone was better for it.

Death of one is a statistic. Not sure why that’s why, but its why, I’m told. Marriage is comedy, but the dry old skin, peeling, red, not-fleshy. No rest for those old bones.

I want a companion piece. Something to drive a man a long way home for his ride. Or a woman, I’d. Not discriminate, it’s the current year.

Tasty old bones though. Strangely enough, and I’m tired of bizarre ins and bizarre outs. Time’s ticking.

Invest me. Waste me. Spoil me. Grace me. Use me. Abuse me. Save me. Crave me.

I’m not money, not that its funny. For a rich man or not. Or the world.

Its just that one thing you’d do best to live with, and best to not live without. A friend of mine when I need him most, or her, I don’t discriminate. Its current year. You’ve guessed my cryptic puzzle, bones: time. What a thing to stand the test of. Or to. I’ve forgotten.

Time’s passed though. Thru. Through. The sun sets, and those other old bones won’t get a lot of rest. Heard its nice up in – somewhere that was colder once – maybe I’ll move there. Doesn’t help that things flood. Suppose that might be rest for those old bones.

This might offend you: granted time might not tell you: or maybe it will: no flood around the world is real. No – ah! There she is: Reality Control

The ability to rewrite the Universe around you to your whims. It is a bit like lucid dreaming but instead of controlling your dreams you control the universe around you. The Amaranth of dreams and of apotheosis of mantled man without mandibles.

Currently, the most expensive sword sold, on record, is the Boatend Saber, possibly the personal sword of Chinese Emperor Qianlong. At least that is what the markings and inscriptions on the blade allude to. How shrewd of you! End them Rightly, right, endly them. Gallant, how knightly!

Shadow man, when’s your birth. Shadow man, how’s your girth. Might need building, but there isn’t cake. Shadow man, blood and love, there is fake. A white lie is something you’d tell yourself before a dust devil ate a dust bunny and swallowed old Mittle up whole. In the wall there’s a cork. It stops all the goodness flying out.

Shadow man let’s go drinking. Shadow man, what’re you thinking. Shadow man pray don’t tell. Shadow man don’t go to hell. Shadow man, I hate that more. Shadow man, that’s right you’re.

Interesting. These old bones are sore even if the that belt shows its dipper. Is playing with temptation a mortal sin? Is playing with temptation a mortal sin? Siren me sage and me assault waltz sensed at Troye,

Be born brightened and Brent to branded and asked,

Be talk at me trammels of treason Þór wrote

Willene of al me while in me west lies A priest was on leaden; Layamon was hotel.

He was Leoneans some; lie him be Dronten.

He owned at Erlene; at æðelen are chicken.

Waltz tried for his trickery, me truest on earth:

Be born brightened and Brent to branded and asked,

Hit waltz Ennis me ethel, and his higher keened,

At siren depieced provinces, and patroness become Hit com him on mode; & on his men once.

yet he wilder of Engle; a æðelen teller.

wat hoe hotel was; & women hoe come.

an England lode; rest hasten.

after a floe; me from Drystone com

open Sarane state; sell car him cute.

on-fest Redstone; Þór he bock ride.

It’s a decent time.

But when will we get REST FOR THESE OLD BONES

Fuck is a burn, world em all. Twenty-fifty-thousand-one-and dead, Antipope was right. Good wines though.

Safe. Tyne is a river of solid water but not ice. Midas knew all about it. Damn I am thirsty. Mittle’s got down to eating old cartilage again. Damn, I am thirsty.