CRASH
In the small hours, when the day's fullness had disappeared, looking round
for illusions of support, with a sense of impending rust like a celebration
of plaque, AutoPoet cast about for a something we might call substantia.
As in this is real as in this is not a shadow river as in yes You are and so
am I and that talking was understanding we met on its plain.
But the sensors were off-line and the cellar AutoPoet was in was sinking
beneath his defunct treads and besides which his batteries were no longer
manufactured, obsolete They cried, and the charge was running low and a
lecture on entropy was waiting at the buckled door, delighted at its
delivery, while circumstances gathered in the corners, bright-eyed at
possibilities of come-uppance, We told You so, they rehearsed their cry, and
looking like a discontinued product, maybe a washing machine, of former
purveyance, AutoPoet tried to shout: Told me what? And why?
But vocal chords would not be plucked and silence became its own answer and
the floor collapsed, rather drunkenly I regret to relate, not good form
that, and the aforesaid illusions (aka support) proved
not to be there. Not there.
Crash.
Best
Dave
David Bircumshaw
Leicester, England
Home Page
A Chide's Alphabet
Painting Without Numbers
http://homepage.ntlworld.com/david.bircumshaw/index.htm
|