We believe our cistern has worked on its own renewal
over the years. It is callused purposely to look at.
At night, in the wee (hehe) hours, grimacing our condensation
bowlegged. Its infantry of cogs and pulleys plumbing brown
twilight further afield. You'd want the warmth and comfort
of silence, sectioned only by housecreak and bugpath,
but a few feet away on the bookcase – there also stands our
phonograph. Its whinny doles out a neural swearing of frostbites,
totally corrupting the chronology of our few remaining old cells.
Our joints are specialized for a weird, cruel fable.
My old wife and I think in the end our parts would form the
vividest parts of nature. Bullshit. Technology's parts would.
And then one morning it happened: our cistern together with our
phonograph ran out into the traffic, flailing-armed. There, they
found an ideal place, a place not short of enclosures dimly
puffing symbols of tar. The cistern's morning wood shamed into
moving like a toothless hare. Germinating only a lugging,
not really a producing, or a ceding. Technology of today.
The cyborg inbreeding of 'quaint' viper's shinbones with 'tasteful,
understated' gardening shears. They say 'spontaneous' killing
is 'oblivious' killing. So as one concoction our cistern and phonograph
barges into a supermarket, without looking left or right.
I am too old. I am very old. I prefer to whet my bowels' natural textiles
on reading the Guineas Book Of World Records, getting off on the
one particular record held by this hypochondriac young woman for
the most cheap accessories lodged between her toes in one beach stroll.