Clippity Adaptability

Clippers, dippers, shimmers, glimmers, glitters,

Lost in the gutter of drawers under my sink—

I need a pair of clippers for when I’m lost in the woods

At the second of an eternal blink, of the eye.

Chickadee claws, so tiny and nimble, grow out too just like you, and like a loyal spouse, why not lend a hand? Give him a holler and use the one-dollar stocking stuffer and receive for your strange charity the appreciation of many a worm, whom will decide with clarity to forgive the deprecation that men must feel when baiting someone’s cousin with no concern. Try it on your own and have no holes at the top of your sock, sharp and straight as the nail on your big rock of a toe—leave them in a bowel and throw them out.

Clip at the skin and save yourself addictive behaviors, little savior shears who have the ability to stop clip clip clipping, unlike your fingers that have a mind telling them to pick pick pick, pick bleed gush, until infection chops those fingers crushed. In the pocket like a socket, containing an essential part of your quality of life—your compass, when lost in the woods of ohmygodIcantstop. Shop around and find a good pair, for you’ve just enabled your addictive habit and controlled it, and now like the air, you need it to breathe.

Tick killer—pull it at the bite and tug his face from your arm, stab him through and through with those penny-sized jaws for he has committed theft against you and kidnapping against your blood, trudged through layers of dermis and tried quite hard to be a balloon, what a loon to think you wouldn’t fight back with the power of your clippers. Mighty weapon of chaos when it comes time for those insect fuckers to get off your property, a mighty cause indeed.

Your clippers have an important job title:  the tweezers’ secretary and with a wide trajectory he is never around to complete a task, off with a flask drinking away a nonexistent, hypothetical life. Far more reliable for the crying child who screams libel in the words of journals when Mom can’t find the tweezers she plucks her eyebrows with clean—the backup instead, who clip clip clips with the experience of another mentally unstable creature long on its mind, featured to the forefront in kind like a nurse fresh off the clock. Mom’s thinking in swirls when her tool of a best friend in the moment silences the cries of hate against pain and the world of worlds.  

You just never know do you? Blink, blink, blink.