My new name is stumblos and you, my paid for, exotic lip misser , are now my brass headed cane. Get used to it.

You sure make funny faces - says Miguel Ealon standing up from his kneeling and lowering the flame – why if I didn’t know better I’d think you was playing with me.

Ow. No. No. Not me.

If we get out of this one I’ll owe you a mended love letter and a crocodile’s life.
You. I’m talking to you.

Telepathy. A language only parents and children hear. Well, incest on a rotten tree has gotten me a sister for an assistant and best friend. Rebecca. She with the blood-breaded lips believes me when I scream, “hit the deck!”

When the smoke clears, the wall is gone and my black boxed recording mechanical guard chokes Sir Ealon and his southern raised blokes.

It all rhymes but I’m still left staring through rainy day windows while my love floats trapped in that villain’s machine. Rebecca.

Ringggggg and the phone.

Hello.

Brian Eno calling.

Really?

Derrrrr NO! It’s me, Patrician Stone.

Bless my soul. The Gravity Queen.

The sky starts to snow.

Hordes of toys claw over my lawn smelling of talcum powder and Russian soap.

Neglecto gun is out of gas but still the sparks of the ice skating manikin chummy in full body cast goes off and we all melt in the fire.

I’m lost.

Rebecca’s far away voice “Alone at last."