5 ‘o Clock world

Hickory; and the subsequent penultimate dickory and the concluding dock. The rhythmic rodomontade of the alerting siren of the cog-wheel contraption of the dial estimating the every static moment had a rather hypnotic - a rather derisory effect on a quad-ped rodent otherwise scurrying finally about. Contrary to the fight/flight axiom, the rodent rather chose to approach rather than reproach the indiscriminate ticking sound of the precise reminder of the man-made reference point of period.

The beguiling, pendular, oscillatory trance of the whatchumacallit stimulated a burning ascending desire in the rodent, which then acted upon its fetish cold blooded desire and chose a vertical path rather than the preferred horizontal, thereby causing a proximity to the tick.

Whereupon achieving elevation upon the masterful clock which is often associated with the patriarch two generations elder, the clockwork worked like clockwork, to protrude the reminder of the behaviour of tides, as does time herself, both of whom expect discipline in arrival.

As the needles crossed paths, and the minute minute hand blurred past the highest number on the dial, a singular tintinnabulation echoed across the insides of the clock - the sound of the gong bouncing off the internal acoustics of the clock, which thereby caused a robotic mayhem within the order so enshrined in the clock. The rodent, startled by the aural stimulus, then retracted to the earlier contradicted axiom of fight/flight and chose to perform the latter and in a manner most foolhardy, decreased elevation and descended the once-hypnotic apparatus and scurried down and retracted to the burrow from whence it exited, cognizant of the Rubicon just scaled and the fine that demarcates hypnosis and flabbergast.

Aren’t we all but slaves to time? Men - in a rat-race against time? Where does the 5 o’clock world begin? Which under-rug do I have to slither where no one owns a piece of my time? Where can I sleep in so I wouldn’t wake up in the morning just to keep a job and find my way through the hustling mob? Where do I white-noise the sounds of the concrete city on repeat in my brain while another day goes down the drain? We are all mesmerized by the tick of a fatter bank account. Our mouths drool o’er the plate, but get stung by the fork and the knife. The zenith of the allure is plastic, and factitious. So compelled we are by the tick, we do not insure ourselves against the tinnitus of the tintinnabulation.

There a little rat in all of us. We all scurry at the sound of a gong – we all live lives below the underbelly of wasted time – we are all cold-blooded. We thrive on shit and multiply in a geometrical progression.  Where is my 5 ‘o clock world?

Why do the Vogues have to be so vague?

Para-reh-hi-hiii- e- eee-eee-eee-yeah!