The Spy

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The Spy   excerpts....Thrown out of Finished Novel GREY_GRAVITY (link; https://goo.gl/ppbuop ) ---- What I did want, now the mad little blue girl's through with the room. Away. I wanted a type of peace, without people, where i could go away, ev...


The Spy
 
excerpts....Thrown out of Finished Novel GREY_GRAVITY (link;)

ant.
 
What I did want, now the mad little blue girl's through with the room. Away. I wanted a type of peace, without people, where i could go away, even from all the Peace-men. Just to find out a way. Never wanted much.
 
The silence boy, brings a strange kind of peace, while all these big glacial fur-coated large men, chatter and share, smoking and booming discourse upon such fighting, as so and so, and onward fighting, knee fighting, big fighting,..ever-ready control of this type against even bigger controls. Huge men that could brawl in cages, but pick mind, and elucidate minds in jars of thick, slopped, waving whiskey arms.
 
That stupid adman girl, and my stupid patience.
 
There's a damn prince hiding there, inside his quiet doe eyes upon paper and song, solitude of the mind, and it overcomes it all, with more quiet, and quiet, and you think he has mind-quiet, and you stare for enough minutes it takes to record that beauty and that chosen hero, but you know, to how to stop with the stare, and let him rule on, pushing minds into each decade, watching the decade after being formed, one point by one point, he places them, round discs, of tiddly winks, on the table next to the jar of sugar, poor-man's toys piled like coins, kept stationed in generation beckoned,generation pushed, and moved by pure angry, silent patience, it makes woman loud and animal-like, they stand at his word, staring like cat-feet, stand screaming for his notice, a recognition of them, and he waits exactly a minute, or exactly for the amount of patience in each new woman, he stares at nowhere, and silences them by pointing out his dark frowns, clean soft coral pink pouts, and pointing long brown eyelashes to floors. He rules them. They know. How do they know? They obey him, every one of them, not because he can speak or is to tell them so, but because they are given understanding, first one of the long day, they turn into spiritual women dropping the war they have been carrying every single day, near every single man. That is Good, he exclaims, that is good. It is swift, concrete ....They stop, and he bows to the respect that stares into him. Unknown by...



 
I'm in silent too, to forget, what they may have gone for, and what going for that in that way, may have got them?
 
the vile rate, a ratedness of popularity. Wars against looks. His looks win All things. He wears the looks as he wears silence, no questions about looks. They even stop at that bow, and begin a new form, how a woman would form plans, in the expectation of becoming a man's wife. 
 
The next wife, even. wife after wife.
 
 
 He pats long, thin tanned fingers, upon his little tiddlywinks, plastic discs of different colours, that you flick at a centre spot on the table, trying to hit the mark as much as possible, and to win,  hard things, and nods with eyelashes, his silence is organised into peacetime petitions, all he knows we wait for, all generation awaiting his words. 
 
 
Just because to encounter, him, in silence is the best i did want, even, when you are angry for words. Women know what he is immediately, well, some of the wiser women do. 
 
His silence is like silence even when he speaks, and silence purrs and rolls upon his tongue, in a syrup accent, he says something softly, 
 
I'm upon that soft word, there are so many rare things. I wait decades, and then keep each rolling syllable, and only our eyes, all our eyes are thrown at him, eyes that get angry at silence, new eyes of anger, turned over to the silence of a better tpe of our companions
 
We have enough spirit in us, that is what brought us. 
 
We know that, 
he know as he knows.
 
=========
He doesn't think about words. He must just be polite, patient, waiting for the special girl, who is always abit overwhelming for that slow, husky breathed lord.
 
 
 
 
He doesn't think about words. He must just be polite, patient, waiting for the special girl, who is always abit overwhelming for that slow, husky breathed lord.
 
A subjective tune for a little city generation man respected over all lesser kings, city cryer.
 
======
 Pretend you know, catch that word of his, that rare expectation, then weep loudly for ways in other men, that have sent you lost for a new song.
 
 
 Cry out, with sunk in emotion, wrecking the body and mind, ripping red bolts of fears, and loss in wet tears, at the sight of the dark-haired skinny boy in the corner of the room.
 
Stressful, wet, sopping fears, packed in for the last decade, attuned to etiquette, forms of speech. Forget how you learnt to speak, and what it did, it was worthless all your life, because a rare thing has happened, he looks slowly, and because there was a word forming from his pouted lips, that said everything every man could have, but wasted in the directions of 
 
having to just do that, obey this, I mean, wasted my fucking life, upon, greetings, and patterns of excepted languages, unthrilling presentiments, ....the fucking witch in women, that obeys him like obedient wife, murder, every female a wife for a boy.
 
 
and it can't be forgotten,
 
the wise
 but it wont let you have it for too long, the wise in him, the silence comes back, his black eyes knitted. But not in frustration, in complete sleepy understanding of all patterns of people, the stereotyped fit in, and cut out like cardboard
 
 
and you fear to send a word back, because all of it has been spoken. SO, leave him at the back of the class, in the corner of the cafe. 
 
 
Some woman are shocked at the way they have walked in on him. They are the louder ones.
 
 
You have a soldier, in silence.
 
A forever..

 

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