Wake up it’s a beautiful morning,
like the infinity of a closed chain;
lists keep growing, brain-freeze again.
As long as there’s tomorrow, not today.

Succinct intentions imprinted by a hoot;
how can a sub-conscious refuge,
de-commission the projected truth?
A 24-hour religion, is that all it is?

So which way is it to be tomtom?
Intrepidation never failing,
or honour ‘the’ grand unveiling?
Side-step: back to back-warming Oracle.

Pride appoints a distilling of hidden stature;
forget the dentistry of a mounted gift,
sensitivity not deserving an emotional spendthrift.
No mentions of a game, but you have to play.

Rationalising the intensity of late;
surely that’s an impossibility of squirming feet?
Solution follows a tryst of the elite,
subjects must therefore be; for it to make sense.

Periodic patterns of revolving chrome-vanadium,
lends itself nicely to discontentment
and occasionally promotes relinquishment;
summer sun; does it matter?

Survival make-up – check.
Abrupt journey’s end; in your face.
An odyssey not started yet, offers no grace.
Relax, the God’s haven’t even begun their terror.

The bottom of a barely coping universe it might just be;
Curious are the similarities to sinking sand.
Submerge as you extend your hand?
Or do I just simply do nothing, and nothing happens?

Rat-out the analytical introspection monster;
For when you can see your own reflection in a black-hole;
A bonus penalty shot at life’s ultimate goal;
Then a neutered Neutron star is a good thing to be.

Patrick (Lucky Stars) O'Hara set his disabled grandson up on the old horse's back. Contrary to his moniker Paddy was anything but. His luck had run out. His son had just died of leukemia, and his grandson was now fatherless. His "daughter-in-law" had run off long ago. Couldn't handle having such a disabled son, and a sick husband. Paddy had never liked her anyway.

Patty looked at the child's wizened body. The cruelty of scoliosis. The doctors said it would cost vast thousands of dollars to straighten Bobby O'Hara's spine. Money Paddy absolutely did not have.

His sad gaze shifted from the boy to the horse he was sitting upon. Oh what a magnificent creature you were, 8 Ball! His own retired racehorse. What was once a stone black coat was now mottled with white. The figure eight shaped blaze on his forehead had given him his name. Not to mention the way he took off at the Starting Gate. As if someone had goosed him with a cue stick! And he bounced off the turns in the track as if he had a spin on him that was absolutely deadly. 8 Ball loved to run! He was unbeaten in every race that he entered. A real Dark Horse. With no particular lineage whatsoever. 8 ball just had Talent. And the track owners hated it. Most races were rigged. And Paddy O'Hara didn't play the game.

So they set up a race. With a big race horse named Red Rodger. This horse was also unbeaten, and had a promising future. But Red Roger's jockey was told to lay his horse down... Right in front of 8-Ball. So lay down he did. Killing Red Rodger and severely injuring 8-Ball. There was a lot of speculation about the race. Especially how the jockey riding Red Rodger had jumped from the horse just before the accident happened. He said his foot had slipped the stirrup. No one could prove otherwise. So red Rodger was dead, and 8-ball was very effectively out of the game.

8-Ball, being a sweet natured horse, stood stolidly as a little boy patted his withers. He looked back at him with his gentle dark chocolate eyes and nickered with what Paddy could have sworn was tenderness...

He heard a frustrated whinny behind him. Looking back he saw what he expected. The F-tch was back.

Lady Genevieve Summerfield-Fitch looked down her long nose at Paddy. Astride the most magnificent jumper O'Hara had ever seen.

Gentleman Jim was an astonishing animal. The dappled grey of rainclouds on a milk white sky... and his lines were flawless. Not to mention his lineage. His dam was Proud Nelly, and his sire was none other than Seafront View. And The Gent was as good as his name. He wasn't hare- brained like some horses which became ******. This was a well-tempered, almost intellectual horse. He worked WITH his rider. Practically thinking his way through a course. And it was no surprise that Gent won more awards than you could shake a club at!

But Gentleman Jim's rider was anything but his counterpart. She owned him, but she was no lady...

All of a sudden Paddy's gaze shifted again... this time in the far distance to take in an apparition. A small blonde girl... hair the length of her knees! Running like the Hound of the Baskervilles was after her! She closed the distance between them so rapidly O'Hara was almost dumbfounded!

"I... must... buy... your horse", the child panted.

"He's not for sale..."

Suddenly Paddy saw who the youngster was running from. Back in the middle distance was an ugly bald-headed creep. The spider's web tattooed over the left side of his face was enough to change Paddy's mind... he'd give the girl TomTom, though. He was a good, swift horse....

... then, before he knew what happened, his grandson was sitting on a chair by the stables and Blondie was astride 8-Ball!

"Hey! That horse is old and LAME!

"Not anymore." The blonde girl said simply. She pressed something hard into his palm. "And he's now mine".

As 8-Ball wheeled around to go out the gate something... happened. Was it O'Hara's imagination? The Ball's coat got darker! And shiny! His "game" leg seemed to... straighten...

When he made it out to the trail with his small rider he bunched up his flanks and took off Like a bat out of HELL!

The young blonde girl's long hair streamed out behind her like a sail as she took on the seat of a hockey... PERFECT FORM!

Paddy looked down at the hard object the girl had pressed into his hand. It was a classically cut emerald, dark as the hills of Kentucky. And bigger than any Paddy had ever seen...

Smoke rings out of your ****.

Sitting in a wigwam playing tom toms
What a lovely day; tomtom along
Tambourine jingles while I'm playing this song
Look at all the children dancing; nothing shall be wrong
People always want something but I smell a fishy that's horrid and pongs
Playing tom toms calms me to centre thoughts of the past and the devil's tongue
You use people freely like a troublesome one who will string you like a puppet then simply move on.

A  guy wakes up one morning and decides he wants to be immortal.
He’s healthy, well to do, reasonably handsome and extremely unsatisfied.
Thru Insta, Tiktok, Facebook and a chain smoking friend he learns of a firm offering immortality.
Welcome, says the Immortician, you’re at the right place.
My TomTom told me so too.
How does this work and how much does it cost?
There are three stages, each increasing in intensity and in costs.
First stage amounts to 1499 USD.
This is rekindling your lusts.
How do I do that?
Unfortunately, our method leaves you entirely to your own devices.
See you in three weeks.

After three weeks.
Welcome, says the Immortician, what did you experience?
Well, I pursued many a lust, but that resulted in osteoarthritis of the hip.
Excellent. Now for the second stage.
Your imagination needs to run away with you.
How?
Unfortunately our method leaves it entirely up to your own fantasy.
And the costs?
3000 USD.
Can I pay by installment?
Naturally, the term is infinite.
By the way, the guy says, you yourself look younger than three weeks ago.
Your efforts are our gain.
See you in three weeks.

After three weeks.
Welcome, says the Immortician, how was the run?
Well, my imagination is in overdrive, no sensible thought in my head, but I did develop a migraine.
Excellent. Now for the last stage. You need to become a child again.
I won’t ask how.
No, the child in you will show you the way.
And the costs are?
6000 USD.
Drop dead, the guy says, you’ve become even younger.
So you’re saying you’re showing me what’s in store for me?
This is reversed obsolescence.
See you in three weeks.

After three weeks.
Welcome, says the Immortician, how did it play out?
Well, I whimpered, snacked and shrieked to my heart’s delight,
but after climbing a tree I ended up in IC with a heart attack.
Excellent, you’re dead right on track.
However, we strongly recommend a follow-up.
Costing?
10000 USD.
Hey, you’re getting younger again.
I suggest you pay me!
And the guy grabs the Immortician by the throat and strangles her.
After which he drops dead with a humongous *******.

Detective: We suspect a love making that got out of hand.