Emily Brontesaurus wondered lonely – not as a cloud but not unlike one either
She floated about – not on winged feet but floated nonetheless waiting for the time
That would bring forth the fruit of harboured desires and reckless suggestive dreams
No matter
That she could no longer enter the portalled labyrinth that led up the convoluted stream
Of consciousness for reasons best known to keepers of codes and the imaginary entities
Standing guard at the entrance to infinity lest her imploring break the barrier to the coven
Now extinct
Until her persistence could force their existence through the boundaries of reality
To make once more the thirteen for the coven that made their magic come alive
Again amid the swirling mysts and muted darkness of the petrified forest they inhabited
Long ago
When Lennon imagined Strawberry Fields and The Walrus was A Nowhere Man
In his Nowhere Land doing nothing but watch Lucy in the sky search for diamonds
That had long gone the way of Bungalow Bill with his elephant and gun – no mum
This time
It was different the way Silverstein got Billy Markham to sing them catchy melodic blues
For Mephistopheles to swing to the counterpointed rhythm and make mayhem for Mick
And those Stones in the park near the Golden Gate that led to the immeasurable abyss
She loved
Falling faa-ll-ling fa-a-a-l-l-lling feeling the wind rush past as she picked up speed
Like a meteor through space past galaxies but always at the center of her universe
She sped through time to the very beginning when creation was yet to be
Before God
Made Its first mistake in that Garden of Eden with misfits and wrong reptilian forms
Beginning the curse on the species now too far gone to turn back from the threshold
Of self-destructive genetic urges that brook no sympathy for the Devil’s advocate
And still
She lingers in that Wasteland with roots that clutch where broken branches grow
From stony rubbish
where Eliot sang a love song for J. Alfred Prufock until exhausted
Her endless quest for truth unquenched – Emily retreats to where time ceases
To exist

That’s Java’s recurring
dream – he has no control. What can I say?

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