gargling the old time, feeling that sliminess as the patchwork clock nears the end of it. all those ticktocks just been adding up, second by second, grain by grain. it’s all old and cranky, and maybe there’s been some leaks of sand, some cracks and creakers (and don’t let’s please don’t mention those drifty webs draped) and that time stopper’s ready to be placed and wheeled out the room. oooh, pretty glint from the dark corners of the doorway shadow.
so, maybe the winky eyeballs in my head will latch onto something new or maybe they’ll keep veering back in the head, trying to get that old glimpse of those cracked clockers. (indeed, how many nail clippings have i left behind, how many shuffleboards full of sloughed off skin?) well, well, well. veering that ocular sweeping in some interesting direction (interesting? well, find some crazer cooker to hash up some spanning dish; or, pull some dusty bookers off the shelf (blowing off the old dust) and crack those lineament, those slightly rumpled spines, paste your eyes to the engraved whatzits, the queer mimeographs, the cranky daguerrotypes and paste-on clowns…) or so we hope.
find the crutch and sweep it out the door. or hope that the old bloodthumper keeps on doing it’s odd and circuitous thing, it’s lackadaisacal, worrying thing. (not to me, mind…) or maybe swing a rope down past the framings and pull in something fresh. but no hook, we’re through with those and all the smatterings of crocks or gators, too.
heard that spanging tone? there’re some crunchy wallers who’ve already seen the briefest sliver of some kind of evenness, leering or loping or spinning away from that deranged oddness, that trice-bewhiskered statuette. grand tones, or so the masty hopes, grand tones to signal an end to… to… whatever it was.