The sunday before the daschsunds met, the cooks were cleaning and steaming getting ready for the big spring cleaning. At the end of the rope they found a soilend bucket and thick hose. Huddling in a fortunate mass they smoked out the farmer and tied him up fast. He wouldn’t turn up this time. No, he wouldn’t shock the midwife and nurse the godmother. A great day was about and nothing would bring about mess.
Saturn leaped out upon eye upon eye. Distancing itself from frail minds and languid thoughts. The wise could see, the kids could see. The phone rang. Siblings excited and unhappy, bethrothed and apprehensive. If it all went to plan the sky would be blue and the birds would be singing. The men would be catatonic and rhythmic.
But it didn’t happen that way, the sun had other plans, and saturn flew straight on by. The birds all had to go south and the men… oh the men. Those snakes brought with them backstabbing ideas and signs of fortitude. Their garments were ripped, thread spilt everywhere. Their eyes where plastered at the seating arrangements, burning holes in the podium and gnashing at napkins.
There was no other choice and the rocks were the answers, every last one. Pummelling, pummelling till the bruises died down. At last there was breath, a time to let go, when nobody else could get through the phone.