Metafiction: Bedtime Story

Non-fiction by Tom Dawson, Jan 23, 2025.

  1. Tom Dawson

    Tom Dawson Well-Known Member

    .


    Just say, C h e e s e
    - to study diseases go live in the swamp -


    Once upon a time, so the story goes
    on a dark and stormy night
    our ragged-trousered Ruckman was set on course for a fight


    snag was the wind blew out the lantern
    down the long and lonely street, whereupon
    our poor fellow and a young lady he intended to meet


    strayed from the tame and well-rounded
    typical liaison and flawed detective plot
    for dignity, a steady job, and appeals for Human Rights



    - shelter and shield story -
    P I L G R I M S  P R O G R E S S



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    Last edited: Jan 23, 2025
  2. Tom Dawson

    Tom Dawson Well-Known Member

    .



    dutiful foggy bottom

    nomenklatura
    cut
    taxes for the apparatchik
    cut
    provisions for the peasantry


    first among equals


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  3. Tom Dawson

    Tom Dawson Well-Known Member

    .


    I seldom expect much since waiting on public transport
    only to find a peckish picket line and a few fiery tyres
    as an appropriate exchange in the gulch of good and evil


    Wot
    Went Before The Word Wend


    Alas, an inevitable off-the-grid parable, a native no doubt:
    Never argue with a dowager in charge of her cubs
    — proceed with soft cushions and permit a pioneer to sew unflinching prosody over the muck on the wall.
    A kind of bustling subsidy or honey-hole of solidarity —


    This also begs a token pleasantry, given the monotony
    of urban spaces and the popularity of gaslighting fiery types with shallow
    artificial pools and ladies clad in bogus white frocks.
    A lauded practice found in tight trailer spaces when the bail bond cometh
    overdue or the pool of moonshine looks a little despicable to ethereal trailblazers
    set for novel ways with wicked Canadian livestock and other finger-licking comforts


    Wot
    Other Highways & Loose Washes


    Love comes along in layers and lilac rinses, scratches and spurs
    Warm and cold contrasts, masculine boldness, feminine pluck
    Am I one who perceives neutrality without borders, bends, and sees furniture without quirks,
    dust-free graphic rooms peppered with the deeds of Hamlet and the misunderstood


    I begar short and call on the unexpected.
    Insane ideas that take no more than nothing for granted in an unfathomable
    riddle of ink spots, empty spaces and dotty measures. And I know not why—QED


    Wot
    Art Makes Little Sense At All


    Masterpieces keep us guessing. Miracles happen—pay is lousy,
    so best not to pretend otherwise from any high Rood loft.

    Where it ever such a night
    Mice would be out playing
    Fiery cocks doodle-croaking
    I half-dead with covetousness
    Such simple twilight passages
    — 'tis pastime to feed the head
    Sleepyhead!
    x