please turn down the music
from a day in the life of p.a larger than persephone cast iron cog with teeth the size of cement blocks, rusted in sour imperceptible moans, slowly grinding calculations within a breath’s whistle. then, with the effort of original sin, it rotates another cog, moving another and then another, worn with centuries of use, all movement which is caused by an ancient roman coal furnace, blowing its soot over the countryside.
within the first noticeable crackling of metal against metal, a mouth opens, at first a voiceless shriek, then gaining in resources, the sound pierces the invention of the clock, as a dark ageless groan. the scream drowns down the sound of the first iron age, then the industrial age, then the mechanical age, and finally reaches of the age of polyester suits, crushing any semblance of disco.
the scream echoes through the minds of the insane, locked down in cold water treatment electric shock therapy plants, accompanied by self torturing devices that naturally come with polyglot demons. the scream surpasses the speed of light when the glow-in-the-dark digital clock turns from a hellish 11:45 to holocaust 11:46. a time that situates something in a chair in front of a desk, within an earthen paperwork mound. a digital turn that accumulates the history of indentured servitude on each and every hair follicle, chains the soul with smoldering tattooed corpses and brings flesh eating demons to the surface of the eye.
this is the moment whatever is slammed back into a finite positioning. this is the moment when identity is invoked in a wall of remembrance of everyone else’s projection, when the self becomes situated with proper pronouns and abject hopelessness. this is the last moment the drowning passengers from the titanic remember before they freeze to death. this is call waiting.
this is no giddy walk through the park, this is the moment one wakes to realize they’re still in the grand inquisitor’s chamber waiting for the next round of ten thousand questions to begin.
11:45 to 11:46, the knocking is continuous. p. knows who’s there, or more-to-the-point, doesn’t know, but knows what the situation means. someone is calling to somewhat about the screaming.
the stopped moment that stopped for centuries continues to fade.
both could not immediately produce the ‘I’ needed to respond, could not puncture the air with any sense of self that would interject a body in a chair. there were still the sweet remnants of dreams sitting on the walls, mingling with each other at3700 thousand feet. it was a desire catalogue, a protest against polite circles. but now is here, here in the cement compound, in a cubicle, here is where p. sat frozen in timeless special effects, and was unwilling to call the remains of a body into plunder.
here is a pain sigh that casts the body into stasis for decades, that moves from numbness to numbers and casts one beaten into hot embers for fun.
p. calls on the centuries to pinpoint the feet to the floor, a sure way to bring the ground to the brain, move the body against gravity’s security guards in an upwards motion that brings the motion or imitation of walking towards the invisible. turning a small aluminum knob that looks like brass, p. opens the door a crack to keep the corpses from escaping. from the other side of the door demands are issued in the form of something with more pay and a longer title-
why weren’t you at the10:20, 10:50 and the 11:05’s . . .?
the calculation and dystonic monitors were fetching accumulative effects, p.’s mind was turning from lard to lime green jell-o.
if you’re going to continue to receive our payment plan from this institution you must submit to the daily routine mentioned in the handbook on proper procedures, . . . that, I may remind you . . . you signed and dated with the correct date!
there was a pause as whatever watched the mouth of the person who used mass like an anesthesiologist on a preoperative patient coat the body with new order forms. the pause continued and p. wanted to bite the lower lip that vibrated from the last pronouncement, or at least cast a spell, turning the individual who was nothing more than a short order influencer, into a blue frog with tiny eyes, but the spell casting book had been lost for centuries and whatever could only stand and stare at the lower lip quivering in anticipation of remouthing constant interjections.
so you are going to comply aren’t you, and attend the next tete-a-tete of the right course maneuver – you’re the one that put the johnny-on-the-spot on the dotted line and started the old ball a’-rollin’ . . . am I right, am I right?
another pause which wasn’t a pause, more an expectation of filler response anticipation to the look coming from this marauder’s eyes that seemed to cut sometime’s protective tissues to measurable bits.
I expect to see you inten minutes at the meeting or I’ll have to write you up again, do you understand, do you understand?
without a breath there was an assumption of whatever, p. knew to comply with this free floating assumption that would appear like a mirage, where the unspoken left an imagined affirmation.
p. moved back into a chair that had provided some resistance against scrutiny as the revenged cells clocked in at 11:47 . . . . . . . 11:48 . . . . . . . 11:49 . . . . . . . . . 11:50. the meeting was a meeting for arbitration of the defenseless and increased need for systematic approaches to any communication factors that were present, which called for
1. how to tell the dying flesh eaters that the tube in their stomach provided a temporary simulation of castration. 2. how to tell the intended their daily requirement was castration, which was a simulation of the artificial one that existed when one moves beyond the holy campfire to the marching clock revival.
p. wanted to consume the product of labor, but that would have meant being a cannibal that devoured the presently mentally profound found in hot spots such as the all night forone price cup of coffee, where all the feeble and recently decommissioned would gather.