The clock at his desk is an altimeter How appropriate I think Spinning round As the day ticks up Like the ceiling For all our loves Our instincts are stronger than our hearts Liquids trickle down Solids soar His throat Up his nose And of course he fumigates his lungs To **** the creepy, crawly things Time In his mind A straight line on a mirror Up into his head You A reflection Of the path A sum total Something has taken One path There is only The downpour of neurotransmitters Your face crickling and crackling Flooding traffic jammed, honking dendrites Wrinkling and rolling The streets In the fast forward century dream They run red with electricity and burned rubber For all our talk Our instincts are stronger than our hearts