TRAPPED IN A TEASPOON

the -ing -ing of the bell
trapping him in
the continuous present

an eternal gerund
as if the moment could not be
escaped from

even the sky clouding
the trees( so to speak )
tree-ing

and he
he he he-ing
a prisoner of grammar

his face looking aback at him
from a highly ornate teaspoon
and he himself that distrotion

reality refusing
to boldly go
splitting the infinitive

the -ing -ing of the bell
a present that refused
to pass and become

the what had been
the now fearful of putting a toe
into a future it did not know

the very future that
awaited him
but could never happen

the moment
congealing
about him

trapped forever
in this forever
the spilled wine

staining both
his shirt
and time

the -ing -ing of the bell
the -ing -ing of the bell
the -ing -ing -ing of the bell

Rain-ing out-side,
think-ing of you.
It could be the
drum beat you play.

(fast, cha-o-tic)

My jump-started heart
when I see you.

(long-ing, crav-ing)

Or the sound of
Flesh, skin on skin.

(ea-ger, play-ful)

But, I think its
Be-cause its set
to the same time,
(Four. Beats. Per. Bar.)
As when I struck
my closed fist to
my ach-ing chest,
ster-num crack-ing
(four-loud-thumps-to
-my-rib-cage)
Try-ing to stop
cry-ing, gasp-ing.
(four-with-each-****
-ed-rattl-ing-breath)
When you hurt me.

It-did-not-help.

Spry distractions loaf on lithe intent,
men waking, wishing, trying,
b’lieving, doing, buying -inging time rather than be-,
results in salt-work, sprawling like the C
in coldness: callous spray
that dampens your New Canvas Day.

Pixels splat and reek of pure demise,
wine trauma met with whys
fires livid earth from foil-pressed crumbs
from which your towers rise. You miss
the point of -ing;
the shape you’re in’s an -e-d thing
writ past because of practice;
timed it slow, fixed solemn bets
all rife with catty pugil,
ribbons placed on “I-got-tīme-in” *******
that gleam too brightly
for the lover’s open eye. Youriyese
in grace, ingratiated by devices
(rueful caries)
shelter you from toil’s ten-thousand days.
You see them, they see you whilst print-ing,
comb-ing over, feel-ing joy anew: such sugar lines
the bottom
of a borrowed cup of time.

White hues direct-ing -ingots in a line
totally gold
and pin “pathetic” on your chest,
their best not forged in -ing or be-
(like they would want you to be) -lieve,
but rather hey! and halt!
The hollow points of discord,
blood of victims be- -in’ salt.

i will be
    M o ving in the Street of her

    bodyfee 1 inga ro undMe the traffic of
    lovely;muscles-sinke x p i r i n    g S
            uddeni
    Y         totouch
                             the curvedship of
                                                         Her-
    ….kiss      her:hands
                                    will play on,mE as
    dea d tunes OR s-crap p-y lea Ves flut te rin g
    from Hideous trees or

         Maybe Mandolins
                                      1 oo k-
         pigeons fly ingand

    whee(:are,SpRiN,k,LiNg an in-stant with sunLight
    then)!-
    ing all go BlacK wh-eel-ing

    oh
        ver
              mYveRylitTle

    street
    where
    you will come,

                             at twi li ght
    s(oon & there’s
    a             m oo
)n.

be gin and it seems there is so much time left / pro ceed ing and speed ing much fast er a gain / craw ling and march ing the mo ments count down / the tick ing grows loud er the se cond hand 's shou ting and fas ter yet slo wly i'm fro zen a sleep / i'm thin king in slo mo time's spee ding and surg ing a round de com pos ing and what do i mean  ? what can i show for the min utes i'm was ting ? i need to be mov ing like there 's no time left / can i get some where make some thing be fore the end ? move me to trust you build some thing be cause I can 't / ev er y se cond i'm dying i need your breath /