(Originally posted to entertheasylum.com October 12, 2007)
With a simple predilection set my face upon the floor, it was lying on the floor, set my hook upon the door. Got a leaning learning foursome on the desk till I had more, was a neverending soul defending crushing truth that face nor power sat upon the floor. Went to window looked in cold dark evening bringing harvest winds from well-stocked hilltops, sat and cried a while then felt better, came back and the face was still upon the floor, as definied as before, if not more. There are rumors in the well, where the depths never end, as the deep and worrying stones set to heal and to mend, that the bile laden waters are of simple predilection, that no matter how long owner scrubs the face remains, and nothing more. Now I looked upon the gloomy moon as room gave way to gloom and doom, and floor became transmogrified as soul and country, ideals died, and all the while pineal glands changed hands in hidden rooms behind closed doors, from some at all to seven scores, while face, the never changing brutal tiresome and brutal face remained upon my floor. Took polish and bent down as sleep took mind to ruin, bones to rot, but were I able to remove the face, no, of course not. Sat down and looked at face long and hard, stretched into my gut a county yard, teeth rotting and malformed at best, a dead man's eyes were laid to rest, and looking down I knew that there were face upon my floor. Only this, and nothing more. Got a hammer, hit the floor but floorboards turned to brittle steel while my meal lurched and vomit splashed the floor refused to budge, even if I hit it repeatedly or gave it gentle nudge, floor remained in time all frozen like a simple-minded bore. Such was the ever-present nature of the face upon my floor, a face I wore for seven score a years or more. As I stared at face it stared at me, we both were helped none simply by the sternness and the stubbornness of face upon the floor, only this and nothing more. I grabbed a gun and barrel lifted raised it to the correct angle, pointed it and fired, did not nothing to the face upon the floor. face was right where it had been before. Now I am a simple man of many talents, predilections, simple habit and desires and my patience wearing thin, I grit my teeth and am determined to do this face in. Want to toss this face into the bin, for poisoning lens and cornea alike. The ocular disturbance of this face is not to be understated, it took my head and slammed it like a nail slams a pike. While night grew thin and moon overhead told me was time for rest and bed, I concentrated, calculated, fixed upon a plan, knew that this was more a battle between cunning face and scheming man. Darkness loomed over me as face were there in front of me and all this while plans did come to mind, as though my body were a vessel passed to me from olden times. I wanted something more than this, a momentary state of bliss, but such did not appear for me for face remained upon the floor, and was a ghastly, awful face, a thing of neither time nor place, a rotting putrid ghastly vision made of meat and neither nore. Enter chronicles of pugilists who under brutal lights, turned their muscles into ropes and their knuckes into ice, though such sport was fice it gave me reason to believe that it could be very nice, aye, very nice in disposing of this face upon the floor. With a set determination I took the face and punched it, over and again in such ways men were never made to rend, and all the while stared at me and laughed, was face down to the core. I sat and punched and fought this face, this awful laughing jeering face, till all my arms were strained and ripped, and hands were also sore. Now I knew this face was not for me, that simply could not be, and I sat down a while, thought about it, knew things I could not know before. I took the face and lifted it from floor to ceiling, still it laughed, my mind was reeling. All the while face upon the floor. Would not get rid of face upon the floor. Was futile error, man's own folly, to remove the ginseng holly, face remained and I were pained for search or error were of ice. I knew of face were never one of reverence of lore, talked in hushed tones at secret meetings far away in Singapore. Knew also that while face were this it made of hard substance, limestone or ore. All this and more, tonight in Sid Ceasar stars in Face Upon The Floor. Knew that cunning, money, power or exuberance would never match the daring wanton spirit of the face upon the floor, the face on the floor, it was only this and nothing more, the face upon the floor. From dusk till dawn the night wore on and face turned more to twisted visage than to human form. While song forlorn came from a distant hill the river wound its way on to a small Nebraskan town where cows bred terror in soft white down, eating garabge in a lonely cottage, only this and nothing more. I may be doubtful, even knowing, of the fact that death is growing, plague came soon to claim this land and furl knowledge band from band till all remained were stragglers caught in winsome mists and permastore. Ate death and knew that visage wandered in while permafin ate no brakes and life the circle we all take, for better or for worse the face, the awful evil deadly face, the face that does not make a place or house a home sat docile on the floor. I knew it were a haunt, nature it did open flaunt, while I opened up my armistice and beconed it for sin. Avarice and green were mine, keystone with a hint of lime, and brutal yelling, screaming, with my wife for whom life was a neverending torture party. Talk to me, don't talk back smarty. Rivers ran in shades of red as I sat top my lonesome bed, my perch where questions dashed in endless stream throughout my head. I were better off dead. While night wore on and darkness fell and I was sent to personal Hell, the face remained and gained great pleasure seeing me a victim of callous mockery. The face upon the floor. The face upon the floor. The face upon the floor.
(c) 2006 Asylum Enterprises