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.
“I daresay, good sir, if you would pardon the interruption,” (He) waggled
his eyebrows, full of thought, “have you by any chance happened upon, I don’t quite know how to put this,” (His) lips curled, revealing teeth (like) yellow(ish) toadstools).
“Yes?” (He) began to cough, a rude rattle. “Well you see this…property…
has…” “Has what?” (His) eyes riveted upon him, a whiteness, a nod of his
grotty head, as if it was for him to finish. “I’d hate to be the spoiler
of your morning. Let me just be gone, and a word for you is–heedful.”
(His) eyebrows were now a stern furry line. (He) moved off with a bent-over
briskness, as if guided, because his head was fixed toward the ground.
He had been gripping the walking stick tightly and the top piece had made
an odd red marking on his hand.
There came a knocking early morn but this was coming from the area of the front door. With some grogginess, and apprehension, he reached for his walking stick, to be cautious. Squinting in the light through the window, he spotted a bird’s nest of hair (then) a hunched figure.
There was one night when he was at the commode and he heard someone tramping away upstairs, quickly did he finish, and trousers twisted, he managed only to be greeted by sepulchral silence and stirred dust. At the window, he thought he’d caught the remnants of movement; if not the stranger prior, nor letter writer, than who? All of this led to sleepless nights, an abiding tenseness, that he excused as a necessary watchfulness and attempt at securing his abode.
The days moved through sludge and heat, and his senses were scattered by the strange, shadows of seeming threat, knockings and natterings, the culprits always just out of sight. There was no one spirit, only the cacophony, and so lacking a target, he set nonsensical traps to deal with the legion. (With)no sign of the human trespasser nor follow up note, he soon merely wished for rest.
The invisible half-loop
Birds take
Just for swoop’s sake
The coaster stirs and shakes the glass
People over the swirling turns like liquid
That burns in the throat it tucks under
For possible Upchuck and wonder
At the heights the scintillating lights