I've been here three hours and
still nothing's done. I suppose it was the small dusty twisters stealing away
with the carpet or maybe it was the dark figures in the corners that might be
water coolers or might just be blind spots. I'm not a drinker, nor am I a great
thinker. I am a badge and a tie clip and a generally flimsy bit of metal held
against over-starched fabric.
I am the sandwich I dream about
on long afternoons-turning-evenings. I am hopeless with my feet. I am walking
to a cooler though I could be going ever backwards. I blame the silent hum that
passes through these shelves. It has made me idle with a baton.
Suppose that I am flickering
out. Suppose that I am in search of a doorknob that leads to a crisp packet
closing. Suppose that I am blinded by dim overhead lighting. Suppose this while
I ask myself some questions about today.
I am a sir and out of ideas worth
walking over. My hands and knuckles are failing me and I'm blushing because of
this travesty. In a library and not even a bibliophile. I do have a flash light
though, so that's something. Eh? Respect me or I'll leave you to your business
again. You can't bear that lot, can you? Of course not.
What is it about ties and women?
They always want to preen and clean and rip it all off. Somewhere, put me down
before I accept this fate for all men in blue shirts. Matter to me once more.
My dear, my dear, my dear, my
dearest dearly deer. Open to me whilst my hands are tied behind my back. I
forgot the handcuffs or I left them with Pete. How sweet is this dementia! The
books are swallowing me whole, ingesting me in lovely chunks. I can smell the
dust already and it hollows my eyes out. How perfect! I am not yet myself
anymore!
I suppose I should say 'alas'
and profess to being a simpleton now. I'm a lad from a block and the chip it came
off of. I am an old man with hair like the shore; receding, fucking off West of
the hemisphere. I wish I had better ideas to venture at this time but alas it
is high noon again and the riddles come pouring out at me. This is brutal to my
sensibilities. I will yawn now and yawn again later, considering the climate of
this library. I am a territorial nomad and won't stop to shake hands or shake
pleasantries with these deadly ring binders. There's tricks galore when no-one
looks for them. It is a hope to be so glorious and striped.
Oh sweet and succulent hanging
thing: your prowess makes me oh so posh. Electronic toothpaste tastes like lightning
on the helm of a Gingham minister. Blame him sideways and I'll go topsy-turvy
for all to see. Blast it. And again. And just you wait for the triumph.
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