Coffee or tea
perks me.
Too much!
Wine time.
Wind down.
Morning time
is round the clock.

Coffee or tea
perks me.
Too much!
Wine time.
Morning time
is round the clock.

Round the clock
R
  o
    u
   n
d
t
h
   e
     c
     l
    o
  c
k
Time.
Round clock.

Too much!
Wine down clock.

clockparts.com
i fell in love with dali’s ghost

on the day i kissed the 34-mile horizon

i watched his clocks melt away

so i made him a new one and painted it purple sky and yellow sun and lavender clouds and ochre rays

and he filled it with the ace of spades

this isn’t well-crafted surrealism

it’s your story spent

It is 7.30 and I am still thinking about the way our hands slotted together like days of the week, normalcy perspiring in the air behind us.
It is 7.31 and I am still thinking about your cheekbones, collarbones, hipbones. I am still thinking about your bones. You haven't returned my phone calls in a week.
It is 7.32 and I am still thinking about forest fires.
It is 7.33 and I am still thinking about clocks ticking and how it's kind of funny how we are always counting the days we have left, instead of the days we have.
It is 7.34 and I am still thinking about how my apologies never really cut it.
It is 7.35 and I am sorry.
It is 7.36 and I wonder how hard it is to tie a noose.
It is 7.37 and I am still thinking about the normal length of a pause when you're telling someone you love them, too.
It is 7.38 and I love you, too.
It is 7.39 and I am still trying not to think about how loud the doorbell echoes in the entrance hall now.
It is 7.40 and I am still thinking about the absence of stairways.
It is 7.41 and I am still thinking about hunger pains and alleyways and the warmth of your hand on my spine.
It is 7.42 and there are some things you can't say to other people but holy ****, I miss you.
It is 7.43 and I'm sorry again.
It is 7.44 and I am still thinking about short hands on clocks.
It is 7.45 and I am still imagining footfalls landing heavy on the carpet outside my bedroom and trying not to hope they're yours.
It is 7.46 and I hope they're yours.
It is 7.47 and I am still thinking about the glass in my ribcage digging in harder than your fingernails ever could.
It is 7.48 and I am still thinking about the way our hands slotted together.
It is 7.49 and I'm sorry again.

the clock on my living room wall
is dying
each second it ticks slower while
my heart attempts to beat
in unison
i like the idea that this is my own
personal countdown to the end
of time.

I just need to be left alone,
but don't stray too far;
I just need to know that you care,
but don't let out too much;
I just need to be able to stand
on my own two feet,
but don't let me collapse to the floor
for I fear my bones may break;
I have grown weaker
and my mind is slowly sinking
into a comfortable nothingness
and soon I will be sleeping
with the dead;
I just need to wait,
but I'm staring at clocks
with broken hands
and they've lost
their voice

I don’t want to sleep
There are too many noises
(Too many voices)


The tick 

Tick 

Ticking of the clock

And the silent buzz

Of street lamps

Outside my window


I can hear her breathing


Like the wind

Rushing through the trees

My heart beat

Pulsing in my chest

It gets harder to breathe

Take it slow

Count the seconds

My mind is so awake

But my eyelids

Are falling 
closed


And i am choking 



Inhaling

Smoke and demons

Exhaling

Carbon dioxide
And ash clouds

My hands are shaky
And my fingers

Are burning red

I feel an electric shock

Jolt through my body

Then entire numbness

clocks
ticking,
minutes dripping away
like soft syrup.

and yet,
we all say
to live in the moment,
live in the moment,
consume it,
be consumed by it,
waste no time.

so why is it then,
that here we still are,
having done nothing?

nothing good,
nothing bad,
nothing worthwhile.

time stops for no one, darling.

the clocks
are still there,
ticking,
minutes dripping away
like soft syrup.

funny,
how you must think
you've got all the time in the world.

(a.m.)