Laura woke to an acoustic abomination
denouncing the approach of myriad
Emergency Service vehicles en route
to the scene of a traumatic coincidence.
A cursory triage operation revealed
nothing of interest to the narrator,
so her protagonist reverted to type
and resumed the painful transition
between sleep and disenchantment.

OMG! Is that the time?
Yes, of course it's 'the time', death-head.
What did you expect?
It's a fucking clock.
Laura blanched, not that anyone would notice
unless by some freak of misadventure
they happened to be reading
the writer's mind.

On recovering her sense of impropriety,
Laura hurled the offending article
across the room and giggled as time flew,
then smashed into an orgy of hyperbole.
The narrator, under the illusion
that she had lost control, paused:

At this point, I raise my hands
to my face, utter child-like tick-tock noises
and put the project to bed.

10/06/2015

Posted on 10/06/2015
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