The whole thing was supposed to start with the magic clock. Not that the clock itself was magic -the clock itself was a piece of crap.
It was the tick that was.
This special kind of sound that could fade in to blasting for 3 or so seconds -dominating and destroying the fan. And, just as quickly as it had come, vanish. It seemed the harder you looked for the sound, the more it would hide. It was only when you gave up completely that it would come back.
But considering the idea had come between trying to pull out the drawstring on the pajama pants by pulling them both together and putting on the hat hanging from the bedpost (an idea quickly discarded because, really, it was more 'hat' than 'cool'. That was important these days), it couldn't be trusted.
Why the hell is everything always magic at 3 AM, like the irregular beat of the fan hitting the wall?
Why is that the single time writer's block can break.
After you've shut off the computer, turned off the lights and climbed miles away from anything to write with; that's when brilliance comes.
But, then again, you just spent the last hour yelling at people in your mind's eye that 'y' will never be a vowel because it was piggy-backing off 'i'. The rest of the consonants, too.
'E' was the whore of the alphabet. E is that girl you think of every time you have an itch you can't scratch in company. She's too busy partying with C, T, and Z to call anymore.
You stare out at black and wonder how the sky can get that way when it was sick-orange a minute ago.
A photographer said blue skies are nice, but they needed clouds to have personality. Big globs of cotton candy making tornadoes over trailer parks.
What the fuck
BBQ thrown in to be an Internet bad ass.
There was so much you were supposed to write, and you had a novel full of jumbled ideas while you were trapped in that wooden prison of a loft bed.
Don't wake the roommate even through she's just as restless.
Throw the pen down and take a break so you can make limp-wristed slaps on the brick wall. Limp-wristed like those monkeys in the documentaries; waving their hands around to get dominance or whatever the hell they're trying to do.
Drawing a blank and realizing sleep would be nice. But sleep is the thief which steals the dreams of mankind while we sit back and let it.
Scribbled bugs climb the walls. Dirty, dirty walls. This is supposed to be a kitchen and they never cleaned the walls or the stove or the oven.
People offering cake made of poison by grime of students making cakes and all of them are now dead.
Lightest sign can't be seen.
Make a mess clean it up.
Make a mess clean it up.
Text grows until the page can't take it. They'll think I'm high, they'll think I'm high. And high is what destroys good authors. Only sober men can write a novel.
Chart one up for fundamentalists and water drinkers; but not priests because they join in.
Bruise and pale face remind you it was not just a dream because dreams are allies of sleep. Sleep cannot be trusted.
Loop it back around and it will make a complete piece; even the crap I churn out day after day. Mention a clock again and everything will be okay; even though the clock is miles away.
And orifice. You have to add that somewhere to make it good.
Sea of blue with bottles of ships emerge from the black -accented with purple and illuminated with headlights.
If ships had headlights, there would be less hit and sails in the world.
Head makes a doorstop, but doorstops are no good if they feel pain.
The conclusion has been reached that contest pieces cannot be made when one is drunk on illness and insomnia. Officially either the best or worst thing I'll ever do with my life.
Clock and orifice.