T on tease

There was a total, complete lack of consolation (prize) at the beginning of the victory tunnel. His parley was three minute's shy of anything noteworthy, and the old girls -- his oft returned-to matrons and vessel-bearers of wisdom and comely vice -- were mute with indifference. I FELL OVER, the loop kept on saying. I FELL DOWN. STARS. Oh the day, he muttered, thinking of the churlish maxims and ball-buster proverbs from the sepia-glints and back-in-the-day reports, prattling on and unspooling in the way that businessman tape recorders used to, the kind he'd find in gutters or between aisle 'pon aisle of thick-barreled corduroy jackets, the type with dingy knees and arms that were far, far too long for anyone to consider, save for rites of passage, or quite possibly crucifixion. Today's note? A sad staleness, much like the morning's toast, congealed in fatty margarine, cold and lowly, loath to hunch a munch or lunch or insert with stanzas of threefold rhythmic derringer barrier. Or like shirt sleeves, with buttons too close, or zippers full of burrs and B's; that ego, SHIT MAN (went the loop again), gol' dang and there it went, the way of a spider, single strand dancing and scuttling off to firths and glens,  only to find or figure that today had no brogue to offset the whiteness. And tiny town weighed a ton.