Just One More Time Around

All the day is twirling as the time is whirling and it turns on its spinning top head. Revolving around the endless bickering, the whimpering wishes of so many strained voices. Annoyed voices pleading to be heard. Wishing to be read. Complementing the whiner is always a blamer. They play on the repetitive game of shame. You may see them one day being sold on the store shelves in plastic toy boxes. You may hear the commercials booming and frantically screeching about a duel of two destinies, the fight of two fates. You may watch as they bicker and brawl in an obscure blur of finite absolutes. You may gawk at the colors swirling in a blended twirl of unknown dimensions. But, do you wonder why? Reversing the scales of sanity, these debacles hollowly flash, reflected in the solemn stupor plastered upon your eyes. The dropping skin hanging off the face has the residue of ignorance and drool. Perhaps you eat as you watch. You indulge the desire without tasting the sludge slurp and slide down the throat, without feeling the gritty grime grinding between the mechanical chomping teeth. Grease and drool mingles on your chin as a sickening apparition cruelly plastered to the face. Unknown twinges blare through the body, but are unknown to the mind. Numbing the senses, numbing the emotions, is the altered sense of…

Stupid commercials interrupting the shows. Interrupting the… oh mommy can I have that? No dear you can’t… well you know we do need a new… no we can’t afford that… the quality talk enlightened around the essence of television. Why are those commercials so long?

Why not leave when the commercials appear? Why can’t you move? The show ends as a gasp of air is inhaled, as the continuous revolving barrel roll of the gun is twirled around a clock’s hand endlessly ticking. In one chamber lies the bullet, in one chamber is a blank. Pull the trigger, pull it continuously, watch the time, watch the chamber. Hoping for bullet or blank? Never question what can’t be…well it can be found tomorrow. But, the show is on tomorrow. You wade through the asphalt, the skin melts, the pain glares reality. Escape the grinding machine where you are the cog; endlessly working. Escape the bullet-filled chamber of time. Please, please one more blank, one more tick of the watch, just one more time around. So I may escape to be found, so I may live to die, so I may be numb to stay numb and never feel pain. Just one more time around.

(Andrew Sippie)