It could have been a Sunday on the decayed Wednesday that slumped in a
corner, possibly afternooning, among the broken-down clocks that had taken
to the bottle, the fractured mathematics that had been spat out from the
skies like an old man's nightmare of teeth, the derelict abandoned odes and
burnt-out sonnets and the jigsaws with pieces missing of chairs, ballot
papers, breakthroughs in physics, bus route maps, menus, fashion tips on
hairdo's, does, doze, those
too many that assail the mind. Could've bin a Sunday. AutoPoet
blinked back into awareness and rue. Rivering, voicefaces pawed as they
poured past without pause. Pawed with tongues. AutoPoet protested to the
ghosts of anatomy. All lines were on hold. Roofless, the former dome
that didn't anymore arch above, ladled down dumpling clouds and a watery
shade of thin soupsky. Somewhereone offered a bottle of white cider.
AutoPoet refused and, as his ancient circuitry jiggled dying batteries
sustenance, despite the sudden iruptions of autobiographical epics and
scented monogrammed curtseying handkerchiefs, tried
for one last time: 'Frnkuhwr llollobdya hrrnwrr' echoed from the walls
(fall'n). As the black silhouette of a huge bird, like a bomber, shadowed
overhead. Speechlost, failed, AutoPoet drew his blanket of darkness about
his head, but, as consciousness ebbed, while calendars tore themselves apart
and clocks wound backwards and forwards, a voice within hummed:
'Tomorrow I shall tell you my name'. CuddabinaSunday, his mind slurred.
Best
Dave
David Bircumshaw
|