Showing results by publisher "Dean Moriarty" in Comedy & Humour

It all breaks like the tide upon the shore, where lovers ease their hurts and find their sorrows dissolved in the softness of that truth to hold and give that acceptance where love has no bounds.

These are many short sketches of daily life observed over a month of Sundays and other sundry moments.

The soup sandwich of this must be: we do it every day but that is not why we do it.

Stream of consciousness with beat writing in a satirical, Gothic, noir and Zen setting.

This map is an idea that time will only take you as far as time allows and being read suggests no more than it does; so never let it be said that something can't be said if it's worth saying.

This audiobook may be a conglomeration of loosely bound stories done in a stream of consciousness style to evoke the feeling of being there on the long journey home, or not as the case may be.

I don't remember my dreams normally. I come out of dreaming and let them go and become whatever reality I'm thinking, and by the time I've found out where I am the dreams have slipped away out of mind, and no matter how rich or poor the dreaming was, nothing of it remains when I'm awake, but here are a few that did remain.

When the robot came out of the closet and began charging its batteries in front of everyone there was a cry of outrage from a lounging bigamist who went on to say: "Protect our children's eyes from the machine lest they become machine-like and poop in our soup." When the robot approached the bigot to clarify a point, the bigot ran off screaming and left a hole in the breadline that the robot promptly filled to great cheers from the crowd watching.

This is about Captain Morgan Jones of the Vindaloo Curry, a submarine he found in the desert one day, and after hauling it back to the ocean by camel train, set it to floating again after repairing a few holes. After trial and error and a lot of huffing and puffing, he managed to get to the Taff River and after sailing up it to Ponty, took on a crew and then set off for the Orient and many adventures.

Why are they targeting the disadvantaged? Why are the rich not taxed fairly? Why does everyone feel so powerless to make change for the better? Why is the anger of so many not being addressed? Why do the rich keep getting richer, while the poor are kept poor? Why is austerity becoming worse while the government laugh their heads off and give themselves huge pay raises and take so much? Why are they not paying for the austerity measures that they instigated and perpetuate?

This is stream of consciousness writing. This is that search for something within that we all must go through one day to find it.

And then a different bandwidth, not quite a security breach came around the corner of it all as I was writing my prayers on the wall of my indisposition, and recognizing me somehow, called out my secret name. Disappearing down a hole I'd dug for just such an occurrence I left everything I'd built over the years behind me and wondered how they'd found me or if I'd been betrayed. Well maybe I'd find out and maybe I wouldn't but I wasn't sticking around to ask questions.

This story sells itself by inference as it goes along and relies for its context upon the clues scattered within its generalities and has as its bearing the vagaries of the human condition in confluence with life as it flows and so should not be mistaken for anything else but what you feel after listening to it.

"Come look through this window to see what isn't there where we have dates that simmer in the sun and we have barracuda timing and ideograms in the points of rust to shake your gates as you yawn," said the Sultan, selling dates.