Minority speak; the chosen few, the disabled amongst you. The Cancer patients and those with runny noses. Nonsense and more nonsense being published today. Nonsense is now in print. We are writing a book that makes no sense, destined to have a our sell-out-tour for sure. Diversity and medieval Christianity. Culture-clash and all things in the sweet-shop that taste a little off. Spring-boxes, kiwis, gooseberries and Warwickshire verses Ashanti towns. Nonsense being written out today. Where are we @ in the bigger scheme o' things? Still no further forward, and long way back to go. The mind boggles on coffee-pots, oil paints and full-frontal images of everything far too easily accessed.
And microwaves and dishwashers; and floppy flat caps, and curly hair and dark-skins among us all, saying something or nothing. Political animals up in our grill...What have they to say today? Say something to someone at some point and all will be revealed. Hacking away decoding, the nonsense we are typing. Having fun in the cages, the patterns that are emerging, in order to read every single thought, every broken stutter, and every inch apart of you. "What rot is this our democratic right to exist?"
Say nothing to no one so quietly. Say something to someone so quickly. Say something of interest, like the joy of being happy. Of angels in the bed whilst lying in sunken baths watching spotty ladybirds on playful cupboard doors. Colourful butterflies fluttering and teacups inside flying-sauces on broomsticks spliffing. Speak of clouds in the sky and birds singing lullabies. Nothing is being said so, 'READ ALL ABOUT IT!'
Let the Leaders make mugs of themselves trying in some vain way to have a say. Let them all fall. Watch the fools play magic tricks, as all escape the wrath in their cityscapes, of busy-nesses on laundry-days. There, I said it again. My nothingness is now so visible it even makes my eyeballs weep. Join me in my nothingness and be a part of everything. Drop out and sink to the floor, and allow yourselves the luxury of failing. It is what is NOT being said, is being said. It is between those moments of space and time, which allows us to think a little clearer. The publishers are a-publishing and the writers are re-writing. Say your nothing now! Speak of the truth that is unspoken? Shall we fall to our knees and pray until the day we die? The devil is in the detail, the Devil is at the door...and she has come-a-knocking. Tap, tap...tap..once more...
I see at a glance you're listening. Your blackberries all a-flame. Following the threads and saying your nothing, as clear as clear can be. Spit it out! Shout it out! Like the humble bumblebee. Look again at the mysteries of the world and say you're nothing vocally. Say you're nothing to nobody whilst watching others slapping on their makeup; sucking on a pear-drop or candy-coated lollipop; staggering to the drawing board, writing out the bills with blankety-blank cheque books and pens. The vast majority invisibly screaming; silently in the dungeons that are, all-too-often, way too deep.
We see behind the curtain, a shadow lurking. And looking and listening so closely, checking on what nonsense are we writing? What could we possibly say but nothing, for nothing can be said. Pointless and useless yet works on every level. It is our nothing that is being written about so loudly, like an orchestra without the strings and violins flowing within bars of silences of emptiness. We can see the nothingness now? We shared again our morning news, full of nonsense and understood nothing. For the first time ever, we understood what nothing meant. We are looking for a publisher, to put into-print our heartfelt-scribbles on these rather elaborate ideas of nothingness, but all the publishers are busy. Busy printing novels, biblical-bubbles with notes and prefaces on nothing, so we shall wait in line without the snorting.