Images Only Shown on Gray Evenings

So the light has gone down with the whirring blades of imaginary chainsaws

And the sounds you think shampoo might make if it made any

The lists you’ve compiled of butterfly wings at your window

They blink as impassively as any fellow walking down the street

Alarms go unalarmed and you wonder about the chairs you have that will never be sat in

And that thing inside of you that clicks and clacks, the comings and goings of a puppy whose nails need trimming

Gods like Isis can’t really be called upon or counted on, nor can the tumbling tufts of grass

I wonder if that demonic buzzing just outside me is some strange terrestrial wanderer who has haunted me since I was a slave building strange jungle monoliths

Or if it’s just the sound of a tape rewinding

Record over this