Sure enough
There’s a hole in the donut
Through which
The world sprinkled and glazed
Wavers at teeth and lips.
Sure enough
There’s a hole in the donut
Through which
The world sprinkled and glazed
Wavers at teeth and lips.
Across the universe
With no mailing address
Looking upon you
Through vastness
And strewn stars
Past the directing hand
Filigree
Connecting
The eyes, the eyes
Extra-stretchy limbs
Absolved by time
And dimension
To appear
At the end of a bed
And pull
A forgot
To mention.
Ruff he would say
From the frayed poster
And humble brown eyes behind the shag
What would it take
For your tail to wag
From yester-night
Woozy with light
Knocking about
The fathoms of dark
It was
Full-buzz
Now slumping
Weary
Of mad underlings
Scattered
Sparking
Give me the phone
He didn’t squeal yet
It has the feel of a set up
The Pink Pig
Where the deal’s goin’ down
Gimme might talk
Or he might have flown the coop
He ain’t dim He might be transparent
Have him run a little errand
A Loop de loop
Gimme might talk
Stick an apple in his mouth
He gonna roast
Would blink multi colored lights
And scream
At any baffling moment
At any passing
Stream
Of thought not
Previously
Fed into
The robot
It looked alert
Solid
Clunky in the corner
Of the room
But could be offended
Any time
Like a drama queen
With a
Whirring
Clanking
And shooting out
Of steam
At the intervals of light, his steps slow and cautious, the visage
in the painting swept up before him and its mouth moved to a
cavernous gape before the horrid sound arrived of such insane
yammering yowl that stretched so, that in his fright, he had
the stitch of sense to recognize as a form of communication.
Lowering his shaking self to the stair, he set his hands out
before him in a placid but searching gesture. The spectral
face remained but the malefic babbling ceased. In a blank of
time he came to realize the storm had calmed, and he sat in
the full dark utterly alone.
In the hall, he noticed for the first time with any (pregnancy) the (painting)
portrait of the original owner. His face was sallow and thin, eyes peering
with a knowingness which was surely a trick of posterity. (With) a further
howling from outside, he wondered if it was necessary to descend the
staircase at this hour. At a mad draft his candle was out, and only the occasional
flash at the windows captured the scene. He decided to descend, the place must
be mastered if ever he was to live here beyond these frantic days.
The rains came heavy that night, the dull roar and the pained wind
covering whatever mischief was outside his room. Awakened after
midnight by the boom of thunder, he soon saw his troubled reflection
in the window with the flash of lightning which (preluded) another
crash. He had a feeling he wouldn’t but for dreams see the (foreboder)
again and that if he were to venture about the place now that the
tormentors would have vanished. The candle in his palsied hand
licked and (guttered). He imagined his family tucked in and adrift
upon dreams. Soon they would be reunited and this damned episode
would be done. The door creaked (when it never before had) and the
rushing rain seemed to gather to a swallowing tide.
The old fool had been much too late with his warnings, of course,
the mere presence of the man had unsettled but be he the note writer
and the trespasser, it should have given him some relief. The quietude
of the house and the seeming boldness of the bright day did reassure,
and sleeplessness with the resulting tensions looked to be the obvious
explanation. Add to that the initial note and its forebodings, and
imagination was the fictive solution.
Fallen into a mid-afternoon nap, the cold clamped fingers at his throat
and rotted mouth closing in had him awake. At least now there was a
single source to his frights, and perhaps the key was rattling the
story from the unclean dodger.