bollocks

Example of bollocks:

The attack was committed under the velvet light (like seeing the sunlight through a ear holder) It began. It ended. Once it started over and over. Rats that slate cheese. Bacon mits. Mites. Yes. It all because of the Snoozegun. No thought went into this whatsoever � isn�t that the point? I don�t think through my gut instincts. I�m confronted with them. Tied hopelessly as they appear before me from flaps. Assessing each one, dying to take it further � some dismissed, An edited trio of fiddlers. Some have hats. All hands are basically the same. Yes. Instinct. Unthought through, Experiment! But does it work? I dunno. Sometimes. As hit and miss as some of the things we say. Some rise and strike a mighty chord that resonates beauty for a moment � others vanish with an anticlimactic thump. This book isn�t either. It�s just a bunch of ill thought through words. Nite. Jing. Bong.

Published? Pyramids in the sun. Their heaving backwards. Light that bounces off rain dissolves into some backwater. I need to strike a chord soon!

Perhaps it�s just like waiting for a good bit of a bland film. Kind of they just go on and on � every frame drawing a picture but most of them is useless. Odd flicker of good, weird shapes that hit you somehow but one every half an hour.

So it goes on. But like a rotten Dylan album. There�s a bunch of jargon but around some distant corner could be lurking a shaft of magic. So to deny the existence of these bits is to deny the existence of the whole. That didn�t turn out right, but do them little bits make it worth while? Dunno � but in this case without the ramblings of the format none of the good bits would strike. I�m trying to justify this to myself. An imagination test. Perhaps that�s what it is and it awakes something deep inside � like throwing a twig at a sleeping giant. It might twitch slightly. Whatever it is in anyone�s eyes it�s here. Snoozegun dwarf playing crossbows with his brother. Shouldn�t have bothered with it sometimes though. It drags on like a sky stretched of stars.

Snoozeguns. Some exist in the world I enter when I�m asleep. Eating up time and thought.

JUST STOPPED: NO REAL REASON.

Destiny. Removed of coincidence. All dancing to God�s tune. Every off note a miscalculation somewhere along the giant room of command. Custard pies in slices. Them clowns goofing up the structure. People dance in perfect synchronisation. God sits on his throne and onlooks pleased.

Above him a chain of his servants throughout the sky. All beliefs. In ideas. Them neverending corridors of torment that the misbehaviours are thrown down. Spikes. Torture. Neverending screams of laughter. God. Do I believe in him? If not. Then I don�t know. I have a confused face. A placard with a question mark on it may not render accurate messages, but may be nearer to the truth than the scripture (that indeed has it on its heart).

The God. Where? Why? Are we his gerbils he plays with and occasionally torments? Does he clean our sawdust � the shit we make that don�t have the intelligence to clear up? Mop up after us in our world.

Nevermind. Self fulfilling visions that span. Back to the throneroom. Another dancer misses a step and is falling into the pit of temptation. Some saint holds out a hand and helps him up. He gives him help cos he was asked. It takes two to reach a connection.

The trapdoor closes and he his standing on clean air. He is lifted back to the podium. The Lord grins and wails like a siren. Joy in him. Rodents. The placard says �hope�. Tightrope of expectation.