In the solitude of lonely rage dreams scatter beneath translucent skin in graphite lines and watercolor pans and tubes of paint spread by the course hairs of a worn out brush held by fingertips weathered and craked and stained with acrylic ink and blood and ***** spill into the wasted hours of pornographic procrastination as hands are busy stroking everything but ego and ambition and time has no need for patience or excuses and moved at its own pace despite the moving gears of the cuckoo clock trying to convince it otherwise and only mankind would be foolish enough to try to claim time can be measured and trapped and strapped to a wrist to cover up the color of thoughts of suicide and the bruises of wasted desperation as the tick tick tock of the bird inside the clock waits in lonely rage for its hour of desperation