I am sitting by the phone
waiting for the slightest clue how
coil springs flew from the watch
dial face of my good times meter
before its needle made the polka
dot zone, all beneath the so modest
gaze of those now gathered together
who mouth simpering inconsistencies
in choruses of overwrought sympathy.
What has become of my carbonated
lightning, its startling fluorescent
fizzle above another would be forever;
those self appointed savants who
promised a slide show rendezvous
like a slim shack ring a ding?
I simply can not miss seeing
that they have been displaced by
play back from those high enders
who now rent out sound bites to
passersby along alleyways, in their
melancholy midnight sojourns.
Did they not see the prescriptions
for a limelight feature attraction
where the ping pong balls are having
second thoughts about their retirement
home, and are no longer willing to
invest in the monotony of a flat
enameled plywood world?
So, like Dude, if the phone rings
some input might be helpful,
and I might at least figure out
where all the twisted blue steel
is coming from.
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