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    poetry


    dots Submission Name: Entanglementdots
    --------------------------------------------------------





    Author: Mud
    ASL Info:    18/f/India
    Elite Ratio:    2.73 - 55/98/57
    Words: 609
    Class/Type: Misc/Misc
    Total Views: 927
    Average Vote:    No vote yet.
    Bytes: 3692



    Description:
       


    Make the font bigger!! Double Spacing Back to recent posts.

    dotsEntanglementdots
    -------------------------------------------


    There was an empty street.

    You know the kind with an old English lamp by the side, brick walls and empty, graffiti-covered (Who watches the-) walls?

    Where no one wants to go but everyone has been?

    The butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker, the old man who makes clocks and the guy down the street who hasn't been on a date ever?

    You know.

    Old English lamps, can't forget 'em.

    And then there was the door.

    The old man who makes clocks (the watchman, if you please) stared at the door, pondering, what could be behind it?

    The butcher, of course, wanted to kick the door down. Whatever was behind it, the fucking door was in the way.

    The candlestick maker, well, he looked, he walked away, he came back for another look and he walked away again, because whatever was behind that door, he couldn't see it, so it didn't matter.

    The baker laughed. He left early. Never came back either.

    The guy down the street who hasn't ever been on a date stared at the door coz everyone was doing it, what the heck.

    Clockmaker said his story, "I make clocks. I take time and stuff it behind glass. Put hands on it that it doesn't need, put numbers on it that probably don't really exist. Still, the precision excites me. The perfection. What would ruin it is if everything happened all at once. What if I was back in my youth, making my first clock, and staring at this door here at the very same moment? What if i am opening it now, but it's also closed?"

    Butcher had a crowbar which didn't work. His bare fists pounded at the lock.

    The guy down the street who hasn't ever been on date, oh well, what can you say, he stared at the lock and couldn't make up his mind. Man, if only he could find something worth opening that door for. He remembered his empty apartment, with a bed made for two before it swirled into another memory of all the meals he'd missed, which coiled around his head and became his parents screaming at each other and swooped below his belly into another memory of that pretty girl at the supermarket. Then it just sort of disintegrated. In his mouth. And he threw it up.

    The clockmaker said he'd already opened the door and closed it and died in it and eaten what was inside it and used the door as a toilet.

    The butcher's red fists bled.

    The guy down the street's mouth bled.

    And they all stared at the door.

    The baker laughed. The candlestick maker left.

    The butcher's red fists bled.

    The guy down the street's mouth bled.

    And it happened again. Or maybe it just happened.

    The butcher's red fists bled and he didn't know what to do so he ate them.

    The guy down the street's mouth bled and the butcher ate that too.

    And the Clockmaker opened the door and closed it and died in it and ate what was inside it and used the door as a toilet.

    The baker laughed.

    They all stared at the door.

    It never opened.

    It never closed.

    Something was behind it.

    Something was not.

    The cat is alive.

    The cat is dead.

    Alice fell down the rabbit hole.

    A comedian died in New York.

    There is an English lamp.

    Who knows these things?




    Submitted on 2010-03-30 14:58:06     Terms of Service / Copyright Rules
    Submissions: [ Previous ] [ Next ]

    Rate This Submission

    1: >_<
    2: I dunno...
    3: meh!
    4: Pretty cool
    5: Wow!




    ||| Comments |||
      hey this was cool in a wierd way i really enjoyed the whole idea

    well done

    sandman
    | Posted on 2010-03-31 00:00:00 | by sandman | [ Reply to This ]


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