it's lonely at the naught

A curious worst ten would rely on there being ten things to say about something. A poem might involve taking a deep breath. A song would have her twins go running amok and adding stapled ads to bits of bonfire charcoal that still have their predecessor's nails hammered toothily therein. And then where, one might inquire, where for the third? Perhaps a bathroom, tucked into a third-rate culturally despondent town, somewhere where only wines are bragged about among couples that bend over and over each other's ends while out and about galavanting at parties, trying, wearing their wits like chest plates, shining to the brim and also, admittedly, daringly clever, yet, insufferable (to boot), as boring as trigonometry, this oneupmanship to sort out who will be the next street artist to publish or which arabian peninsula it should would or could be, in their jurisdiction and as long as someone else does it, to raid. As fourths go, imagine yourself in fourth place in a three-legged race, with only two competitors. When it's fifth, the soothing said would be only the railing you click, as when you walk by, with a stick or a prod, preferably not electrified, but resonant enough to remember and later write about in the form of a surrealist's languor, colored blue, stinging of hot something-something, a clangor so mentionable that the thought of it brings a sheen to the bicuspids, making one salivate for meat or some hapless prey, by the highway, branch clenched in one's talons, watching, raptor-like. For the sixth entry, envisage fur, everywhere, on the snow, on our arms, at the end of each street lamp, like hairy globes, warmly wrapped, and bold, orange, donging like a heavy-set man's jowls, going anywhere but here. Next up: eight is enough. For nines, penultimate in heirs to thrones unspeakable, yet, like a wilderness effort, a trek if you will, over arches turned green from the passing of centuries and under trees, where there once was the brittle loam of nuclear fallout. A curious ten would be writing it out in multiples ending in zeros with the floe of ice jamming through, tender at first, as in a dribble, the burble over brass, pushed lovingly from easy-breeze fountains, like the kind you see in boutique stores; and then turning bout face, wrinkled and germanic, forceful and horny, shoving pushes into stampedes, measurements in cups, pints, quarts, and then gallons, all at once, and one for the road, tipped over.