Shoulder Hobs

A bordello moon sat low in the morning sky, shoulder hobs stretched to overburdened. Some mornings the moon forgot to low, a crouching frog; northernmost star, a bejeweled daystar, the star that summons imps and ghouls, chickens’ feet, corrupted souls and bedbug bugs. Calfskin souls made from morphine and curio-salts, his grandmamma making Doll pastries with extra icing sugar and almonds. The proof is in the pudding, Plumtree’s Potted, like dear old Joyless, before the accident, of course. A titmouse and a churchmouse, the proof is in the plodding: before the next 27 ½ hours another 27 ½, never a moments rest, not a ½, his grandmamma’s feet in bunions, dross and ox-broth, blue Stilton, meniscus, wish and splay-toed; bordello hook-rug made with bedbugs and exacting prophylacticity. These thoughts, these not quite thoughts thought the shamble leg man, thinking he was having true undeniable thoughts when in fact he wasn’t having thoughts at all, not one.