backpaddle

going backwards? oh really! arguments come about; you're going back to the caves, a kid said but big bully john smacks peter hard, knocks him down: what do you know? the crowd sees this confidence, buys it - almost till the undercurrents hit harder than usual, john was left without his underpants. what you looking at? angry john fumed having been caught and it was not that pretty. the crowd laughed, oh john they said and began to poke fun while peter pressed on with his question - hey big john he cried out: you ain't that big! red faced, embarrassed, john rushed unto peter - smacks him hard on the stomach: oh yeah as air left; peter doubled over, heck this crap why should i care? exits from the scene while the crowd listened to john who has now dressed up again, grinning he says, happens to anyone. no caves, only utopia rushed, isn't that the goal? with solemn crowd nodding, of course it is, peter comes back through an entrance - with a bunch of soothsayers. they performed a ritual, set a candle alight; incantations in the dark and an angel appeared who seemed to be rather lost, for the angel forgot to breathe, having never taken air on earth. what is this crap? dear lords john cried out, angels that do not breathe in air; ridicules that lot - just a bunch of clowns all dressed up. he said. then peter, peter the one who led soothsayers into the midst plucked out sand from an angel's eye. see, see, hear, hear he shouted. to no one in particular. and angels they grinned - could have fooled me they sprinkled angel's dust to a weary crowd - don't you see? and now they did, with sands nullifiied they surely saw of monstrous mouths, like caves opening wide. to devour from a million flames; moths to a fire and john's underpants caught on fire! what the hell john bellowed, for now it is surely seen all the many holes in john's tiny heart. caves, dots, black holes and angels they stopped breathing, so the dense crowd could understand. like kids, slowly learning why a b v 1 3 100 they lose touch of. course. but when angels struggle, the crowd - they too halt, pause on their observation, wise guess, following a familiar pattern - but life isn't. you know. familiar. it is like john and peter, and an audience - who's playing? now fire spits. stakes are raised; then angels flew upwards a static crowd remains like earth, stone, inert. backpaddle; steam rises, hot air comes down and yes it makes no sense: you heard that right with more weaving, more beliefs, more faith, more drama, more theatrics, more shouting, i'll pay. and the crowd no longer were sure if it was peter or john that said - gold. gold no longer bright, no longer yellow, no longer valuable. just another cheap metal. exits a door slams and a crowd no longer chasing dreams. just angels gone to heaven.