Friday, October 25, 2013

An Ode to Sightlines (safe for work version)


Oh Screw, you do your job,
No acknowledgement, no complaint.
But alas, the parts you hold together
Were not meant to last forever,
Today you get reprieve.

You're the last binding post
In a place behind the visual world
There's evidence of your presence
In your stubborn hold.

My fingertips, with knowing touch
Find your subtle indentations,
Align the blades, press, rotate
Release you of your charge.

The dirty cleaned, the burred reamed,
The squeaky wheel now greased,
The destroyed ready to be employed.
Time to return to your post.

Now my fingertips once so agile
Are now nun-chucks wielded by child
Flailing about, smacking my snout
Making me scream and cry

As the seconds turn to minutes
and minutes turn to hours
I move around, lift off the ground
Shear skin from knuckles and then howl

'You dirty funky curt bench hole
I swear I'll hurking kill you
You dirty bench, you mother friendly witch
Why the puck do you punking hate me.'

The flashlight, useless in this space,
Has explored the wonder of flight
I try to see, with mirrors I plea,
But nothing gives me sight.

When soul is bent and skin is broken
Miracle occurs
At long last screw, MY lonely screw
Find your thread, FOUND YOUR THREAD!!!

Cautiously my fingers rotate
Your head while maintaining
Downward pressure, must be measured
Cannot lose this place

The shoulder strains to maintain.
Contact with your slight engagement
One final twist, our final tryst
I lose you, and plead, 'DAMMIT!'

Then from corners dark
Comes an unexpected hero.
'That sure sucks, couldn't you just
Come over here and remove this panel?'

Fighting the urge towards
Child abuse I move over my gaze.
Remove the plate, filled with hate.
And send you easily to your place.

Eff. me. And Eff this damned machine.