A Fever Pitch Reached Ad Infinitum

The crackerbox, turned upside-down and sprouted wings.
Spun around unwinding itself, revealing the panoramic blur.
The room was static electrified, dry, dead and in mourning,
Licking time around the clock up through the salivating doorway.

Pampered regally, I vomited cold blood.

I dreamed the violent bruise cooled my fevered brain.
Envelopes flapped to the beat of the removed, clockwork heart.
The heat from the flesh pots, wearing a mask of pain, relieved me,
Knowing the truth, the blinds rolled up like a rolodex.

The crackerbox spun, keeled over, sputtered and died.