Tickory Tickory Tock, The Doc Forgot To KnockA Poem by EthanOpen my box, dear
adversary, and assess its contents. Scribble the
imperfections in your crude clipboard and vomit them out to all, like a nauseous
choirmaster. You are sick, not I. This room, pure white (save the blue bruise of your presence), is my afterlife. When
you are here, you interrupt it like a cough in a funeral, a man spilling his mouthy
bucket of phlegm everywhere he speaks. When you leave, I am alone with the loud
tolls of the clock on the wall sending quaking tremors through my ears as I
lay, waiting for your slimy hand to grip my door and enter again. But how I love the scent of the ladies entering my room, wheeling in their gorgeous goblets of heaven and wielding syringes like tiny swords. Each day they fill my body with needles. I am their happy pincushion. The swords bring me pleasure no lover can, as I drift in space and float to the time kept by that clanging clock: tick-tock tick-tock tick-tock Until the loud knock
of my enemy wakes me again. © 2017 EthanAuthor's Note
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