Of course. Mixing metaphors is similarly as perilous, mixing metaphors while mixing one\’s drinks – injecting intravenously – an ill-advised taboo. It was not Bill Burroughs who remarked \”If we can hit that bullseye then the rest of the dominoes will fall like a house of cards…\” but Zapp Brannigan.
Zip gun boogie. Billy West. East. North and South.
\”Checkmate\”. I digress. The revolution is not so much on pause, as low on ammunition.
One month blurs into another as camel charges in Cairo\’s Tahir Square give way to rocket salvos over Bin Jawwad; the waters recede in Fukushima to expose fuel rods in meltdown.
Tsunamis. Turbulence in Syria.
A changing of the guard on the road to Damascus.
Four horsemen on overtime. Double time. A plague of Sundays. Somewhere between one month and the next, the bleachers fell into disrepair. The fiddles went quiet.
The ferryman sailed by, empty-handed. Lantern-jawed. Granite sprung. The emails gathering one on top of the other like so many dessicated leaves. Well. I have lost the will to rake the ashes. I began one post and could not see an end to it. The music is of saws and knives. Scraping knotted bone. Paul of Tarsus can keep his fine opinions to himself.