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wordvango Oct 2014
tick tock
tock tikety
tee too
time so
tocks ticks
await you
your return
tock ticks
eye flash
hope you
o k
tock tick
await again
life so
tock tickety
long when
listening to
clicks clocks
tickety tocks
gears gnash
hourglass
sand sifts
seconds
hours
days years
tick tocks
alone
awaiting
you to
return
and still
I wait
for you
hear the
ticks tocks
anticipate
ticks tocks
cant sneak
up on me
as i sit
here awaiting
tick tock
click clock
count me
my life
as a
dream of
sand shift
ing down
the glassine
clear vision
ary dream
awaitin'
again
tic toc
to when
the beg
inning
David Moss Dec 2014
Tick tock tick tock

Is their any difference between a tick and a tock?

I mean conceptually of course

Not just the workings of a clock

I guess the ticks are every moment

And the tocks is what will be

All tocks become ticks

But all tick tocks go eventually

Not to worry

I care more though in concepts

Of looking past our man made time

Ticks and tocks don't really matter

If you don't pay them any mind

That's a funny thought though

I like that actually

Paying time our money

Money equals time they say

But to me it's a little funny


Cause what if you don't care for money or time?

What then defines your existence of being alive? 

I mean to me a more sound measure

Is perhaps the pleasure

Of feeling my heart beating

A personal repeating of self made time and space

And once that tickers gone

I'm sure to follow along to our final resting place

Fitting we call our hearts the good old ticker then, hey?

My lungs are therefore the tocks

Like two little personal clocks

Working together differently

But in symbiotic harmony

All beats become breaths and all breaths pass by eventually

To me this seems a more valid sense of time

Like when you think of the sublime setting of the sun

Moments as these seem to slow down

And you're stuck in blissful entraption

Some moments just go so fast

And some feel like the last an eternity

And all the while inside me

My heart and lungs slow and speed accordingly

It's quite beautiful actually

Cause now when I think of us

I can count what you mean to me

115,200 ticks of my heart
30,000 tocks of my breath
Those are my average daily rates at rest

80 ticks of heart a minute
30 tocks of air
But around you I am sure

These numbers rise beyond anything compared


Like when I first met you

I think my ticks were at least at 122

Yes to be fair

My breaths fell short in some way
I guess from all the kissing to be had that day

And when we first made love

I felt like both were above

Anything I have ever felt before

And darling

If I could store my ticks and stocks in a special place for you
Reserve them in a bank for us to save
For special days between us two

I think it's safe to say
I'd gladly let you withdraw and take

All my beats and breaths away
First Draft!
-- Nov 2017
Deep earthen roots, gold arrow-tips,
Sounding rush of green applause
Now, trees and bark stretch to
Higher lows of raptured skies.

Wide face of etched ranks and--
Here His marks tread and silence falls
Quite tenderly under winding timber,
Woodworks, Tree-rings, bound around
As clocks tick to celestial Grange's face.

His deeds show across baked-ancients
And those whose sun came creeping under
Horizontal terms and periods-- in lapses
when Time held his own--

On winding old branches with buds smelling
Young n' green n' poking free from yellow scars,
Time garnered his people, his children and dead,
housed them in ticks and tocks and surnames,
For Twilight's enamelled hubris to bathe them,
Wash them.

To set them in winding bark,
And brand them in Himself,
In Winding Tree-tocks.
Trees carry the marks of Father Time well into ancient swells of the earth, and so then carries marks of us with it.
Spenser Bennett Jun 2016
I have expanded through one million dimensions and still I remain flat.
Paper walls surrender my paper heart to the words that erase themselves with age.

If there is meaning I find it meaningless unless you got it right in one guess.
Can you feel blood in my lost chest as it circulates? Maybe that's a mistake.

Do dead men tell no tales or maybe they spin them lacking air to rattle through ragged dead lungs still pink yet misunderstood? Dust that settles behind twinkling stars lets me down above this silent neighborhood.

I think we all grow up to be pirates, Y'know the kind that the Pan hates?
Betraying our childhood dreams and aspirations for backgreens and exasperations.

If this ship is sinking I want to be the anchor, watch it all crash down in slow motion, while it buries me at the bottom of your endless ocean.
Tick, tick, tick. The clock have ceased their tocks.

Cover to cover I think I have found another darling. Can this tale continue to spin while the world above changes page by page?
Exploring stories that stand up to the test of time. Peter Pan has always been a fascinating idea to me. Thank you for reading!
Becky Littmann Jun 2015
I swear I'm leaving right now
Yet I'm still running around in a rush
&& STILL no pants on
They lie somewhere on my floor
If I don't leave now I'm going be late for sure...hmm got everything.. OH WAIT!!!
SERIOUSLY...again..WOOOOW
FUUUUCK quit messing with your hair & put down your BRUSH!!
****... 15 minutes later **** & I'm still NOT gone
Almost out the door...
*******...WHERE THE **** ARE MY KEYS..GREAT!!
Now speeding like a police chase
Weaving in & out of traffic lane by lane
Trying to beat the clock & it's tick tocks
A sound I  SERIOUSLY ******* HATE
I'm barely on time, a few minutes to spare
It is a WAAAY too familiar race
It's an endless ******* trend, driving me insane
It's like a whole day of me wearing matching socks
SOOOOO, SO WHAT if I'm occasionally always LATE
At least I'm always never not eventually there but still at least there
&& DOESN'T MATTER where it is I'm going
If there is a specific time of arrival expected
Don't tell me that correct time
UNLESS..... In all actuality the arrival time is actually irrelevant
Since I  know you have a "PARTY ALL THE TIME"  way to celebrate
Then please keep on shuffling when my face is showing
Lateness is something I've so EPICALLY PERFECTED
If I had a nickel for every time I was early, I'd have a MOTHER ******* DIME!!!
Being on time & I have just always been so distant
That's why punctuality &  I will never relate!!!

A WHITE RABBIT
GO, GO, GO
NOW IT'S MY ******* HABIT
WOULDN'T YA KNOW
ALWAYS IN A HURRY
YELLING "IM LATE! IM LATE!"
BUT I UNDERSTAND THAT FEELING OF WORRY
TRAGICALLY IT'S NOT THAT EASY TO ABOLISH OR ANNIHILATE
Budhino Jan 2015
One tick
Time goes by
A cup of coffee
100 and 10 strength
Working foolhardy
Chasing the sun
Leaving the moon

Two ticks
Getting tired
Stuck in deadlines
More cups of coffee
Reaching goals
No friends
No love

Three ticks
Unconsciously
Wrinkles around the body
Thousand cups of coffee
Feeling numb

Acting like a sword
Time stabs through the brain
Freezing the heart and senses
Turning human into working robots
No song to sing in the end
No memory to remember
Tina ford Feb 2014
MUD
Mud is good,
Its dead good mud,
It's in me blood,
But where not understood,
Us people of mud,
In the shadow of a gas tank and born on a Mersey bank, I lived on cobbled streets dark and dank,
I played on a ship that sank, and for anything else I wouldn’t thank....... you
On king street docks, girls in cheap frocks, curly locks, time tocks, the boat rocks,
The tanyard smell made life hell for all that dwell, under the bridge,
In Garston L19, it’s the scene, its clean, it’s where I’ve been, it’s not obscene or green, if you know what I mean.
Its community security sincerity and every other word that ends with erity,
But it’s fallen apart,
Don’t lose heart.
I go into town when I’m down, it clears me frown,
I don’t go in me jarmies or me dressin gown,
There’s men with round bellies, toddlers in wellies,
Posh ladies gather in their marks and spencer swagger,
There’s scouse brow teens, sunbed queens,
Hunks and punks, lonely drunks,
Suits in boots forgetting their roots and hens in *****,
Big issue sellers, statue fellas holding golf umbrellas,
Coz of all the rain,
But it’s all good, coz we come from mud,
Let’s cheer, why?
Coz I’m here,
I’m me, me names T, and me hubbys P me best friends she..... lagh,
I like coffee and toffee and Roger Mcgoughy,
I like statistics logistics eye shadow and lipsticks,
I like bags and wags and cigarette ****, but not beer,
I’m fine on wine if I take me time,
I don’t do a line, unless I’m hanging me washing on it,
I work in a bar, not far, I don’t drive a car, and I don’t say Lar or kid or lad or lid or mar,
I’m proud and loud, don’t live on a cloud, and I don’t follow the crowd,
I’m a mum to some, I’ve got a big round ***, but I’m me you see,
I’m not square, I dye me hair, I swear but you can take me anywhere,
Coz I care,
I’m good,
I’m mud; it’s in me blood,
Understood

By Christina Ford
JL Jan 2012
I have been hard-pressed for words
An adverb modifiying a verb
So I threw in a
Hyphen
For good measure
In bad taste

Work was hard
And my bones ached
They said
"Come to dinner with us down off the highway"
Seems fine to me






Wait
Stop
Pause
Hold on a minute-
Tick Tick Tick Tick

"Where did y'all say we were goin'?"

"Deenos"

All could think was **** **** ****
I know you work on Saturday nights
I looked down at my watch

And I knew right then
Tock Tock Tock
I would be seeing you again

The car ride seemed gigantic
All tires wheels highway
Saftey glass peppered the cross lights
From an accident the other day

Broken bottles poking in the grass
Dirt road and trees
I was looking but not seeing all of that

The parking was almost empty
...if it had not been for your car
I remember when I replaced the radiator in that thing
I remember how it had'nt felt like work
Fixing your car under a blazing sun

But you just hugged me and said thank you
Well at least I got the hug

Its been a little bit since then
I rember as I washed the grease from my hands
I wanted to wash off your hug

Touchdown
You put me in the Friendzone
You would probably laugh at me
For thinking I was the only one

I rember how I followed the boys into Deenos
I felt like a zombie
A prisioner led to the block

and just
My
******* luck
you look up
and smile the biggest smile I have ever seen

You seemed to talk so fast
I tried to keep up
Listening intently for single syllable words
My mind might comprehend
And your soft gentle palms
And a desk fan
blowing a strand of your hair
I felt like I was at the fair
Riding the FIREBALL
You talked in your embarrassed voice
And your soft pink lips
Smiled a song right through me

So we sit down
Eat
Well I pretended to eat
Whenever I wasn't trying to chance a peak at you

The guys were getting drunk
Because your uncle Oscar came out and was giving us
free beers
soon he locked the door
and pulled out a deck of cards
I pretended to play
When I wasn't busy, looking at you
And uncle Oscar brought out clear Russian
Liquor and in between jokes and shots
I pretended not to notice you
Being beautiful as you counted down the till

I had to pretend to ****
It was just an excuse to talk to you
"Hey, I'm about to have my break in a minute meet me outside"
I walked to the bathroom
Staring at myself in mirror
My heart tick tocks tick tocks
Shaking my head at this stupid shirt



Outside you were sitting cross-legged leaning your back against the wall
Nursing a coffin nail
I wanted to hold you
I wanted to tell you
I wanted to write some story
Where me and you talk all night


Sitting only a subtle reach away
I sat and smoked and watched you talk
Under the 75watt lamp
CR May 2013
I had
my cold hands against my neck
I had
a new blouse on
I had
a sad empty feeling
your sad empty smile
was mine

a clock without numbers
a clock without a body
a ghost on the opposite wall
it could never be a pocketwatch--
a young girl’s lip trembled
--neither could she

the door was swinging open
and closed
and open
and cold

winter the storybook villain
had turned to winter
the armed robber on Washington Street

sad and empty had turned from something
to all we are
Tommy Johnson Sep 2014
The Nail-biter saw her as his saving grace from a life of lonesome worry
She saw him as a meal ticket and a free ride
He over looked her granny ash
He disregarded her speech impediment
Always holding his tongue when she stumbled on certain words because he loved her and all her imperfections
She had a bullet proof black hole heart and his common sense was stuck in a sound proof cell as they had what seemed to him to be, passionate ***
He worked day and night, coming home with dishpan hands
Saving up to buy her a bouquet of hydrangeas, tulips and baby's breath
She took them and said, "Wow, thank you you're such a good friend"
The Nail-biter left and drove his car into the nearest embankment
She did not attended the funeral, she was too busy having dinner with The man with OCD who didn't have tics but tocks
She knew the routine and loved every second of it
DaSH the Hopeful Dec 2015
There's a beautiful gun in my hand.
Flawless.
                     The nightshift sun gleams off the barrel like a swan on a lake
     At home against the humid sweaty dark pressing against everything yet awesomely singular

     The clock stopped a long time ago and gunshots took over in place of the ticks and tocks…

     (I'm chewing on something soft)

                        … and I never noticed.

It seemed natural.
Every bullet chambered was just another hour passing

       And though it feels like forever I know its been half a day
      

        Blood laces the treads of my shoes
     Hugging the rubber and drawing patterns that I'm less aware of than I am of...

     (What is this? It's good.)

... myself

         Everyone I know is sitting in a pile.
        No more alive than the gun itself.
Still they talk. Memories are shared and advice is given. I don't care to know if its real.

        Everyone talks. It makes sense.
   Even the dead
.
  
           The ceiling fan noisily labors diligently if not futilely against the unspeakable heat. It's the only sound I can be sure of. The motion helps.

     Nothing else is moving except...

    
(Chewchewchewithinkicanithinkican)
    
        ...My jaw. Steadily gnashing through…

     (Everyone talks)

            My tongue. I don't care about the blood at my feet or the fact that its coming from my mouth.

      *What worries me is that now everyone is staring at me and I dont have any gun at all
Amanda Feb 2014
Clearly, darling, you do not understand why
I love you.

All of you.

Stare at these two cups of coffee or look into my eyes.
Shuffle your feet, tangle your fingertips in your hair.
I don't care,
just listen and
let my words
meld into that beautiful mind.
Okay?

For a person to be here, it took years.
The little wisps of hair that always gets into your eyes.
The laugh-line underneath your cheek.

It all took an immeasurable number of tick-tocks.

In those infinite string of days was hours.

In those hours, there were minutes.
And yes, in those minutes are seconds.

Now, don't roll your eyes just yet.
Dotting in between the mellow epochs are experiences, dreams, unspoken wishes behind closed eyelids, tears, laughter crinkling your lips.
The creasing of the edges of your heart.
The sound of your very breaths in a lonely room.

If you think in such numbing detail, eventually I found myself happily and hopelessly tangled in those strings of little infinities.

And then, I fell in love with you.

It's simple really.
Oh, I am so excited to share this little nonsensical writing with you lovely people.
Eeek! Hope you enjoy it as much as I did penning this!
P.S Could someone take me out on a coffee date? *wink*
x
Dawn of Lighten Aug 2017
Retinues of scholars and sages,
United in ages of our personal cages.

Desire to eclipse our wages linked in our pages, but always looking our worth in numerical gauges.

Truly the painful retrospect quantified aroma that arousal the mind in spiral, and the very essense of black hole is true chaos in it's definition of creation in us.

As I stand to breathe for a moment, I look to see that it haven't even been started, and what little  composure that exist in me dissipated the foundation of a cup that cracked.

Gaspe to grasp that it is ticking, and the sensation of lagging is more apparent with each passing day.

Maybe if I close my eyes, maybe I can rejuvenate to start again, or wake from this dream.
Shayla Jade Oct 2014
My words have just been ramblin',
I left the rhyming state of mind.
The ace of spades is gamblin',
but the rabbit's now on time.

Elevator going down,
catching buses to the sound.
How do I know that I am late?
Time exists in spite of fate.

We're racing, now, against the clock
in circles, 'round the spokes.
I've forgotten how the ticking tocks,
for the gears have been long broke.

Darlin', won't you take my hand?
They're try'na pull you under and
together we can leave this land,
but you must know just where you stand.

-

This shortcut leads to trouble,
but you'll get there on the double.
Bad ideas, I've had a couple;
my shattered thoughts within the rubble.

Broken fragments of my mind,
my fate's aligning just in time.
To the past, I'm disinclined;
looking down an uphill climb.

-

You're sending me a message
about the faithfulness of love;
the white rabbit left me breathless,
I still don't know what you speak of.

"I chose you, please choose me, too?"
I'm running, but I don't know what to.
I've fallen down the rabbit's hole,
into a world without console.
Ann Jan 2013
Time suggests that we, as humans, must
never fail to race yet always, we lose.
Sands stroked by waves are not so gently
stroked when named.
The ever so calming ticks equal the calm before a death storm.
Our veins pulse as we mask our paranoia
with a stressed-filled eyebrow and a nervous knee,
a natural metronome.
The beard of the old man is of first relief.
We begin to swap those tired eyes with ours and
sore hands with ours.
We cannot tell the difference.
It ceases to stop yet we carry it along, thinking
it will soon wear down.
I have always wondered
who makes the fire
who cooks the thunder...
I have always wondered where sound comes from,
the vibration within noise
and where it all goes
As I swallow the smoke circles of chance
I **** romance
Take a look into my soul, it is a light-glance
where are the rivers where it floats?
Where are the people my soul knows?
What is the path my mind chose?
Imagining worlds, seeing buildings in the sky
no more cars only people who can fly
Enchanting a young girl child,
having her sigh not die
inspiring her to play the music in her lullabies
It's a roller coast, a slippery sliding post
the dancing the singing
the chanting the giggling
what game is this?
Are we winning?
Is it truly us who are playing?
Do we write what we read?
Or do we read the written?
do we plant seeds or do we recycle apples long bitten?
A ride a vision
a thought, intuition
do we glide to combine or do we consign division?
A lover's quest: harmony
a soldier's motive: justice
laws written, can we trust this?
Tied by the tiresome trials
covered by the dynamic patterns of veils
consumed by the hypnotic controversial tale
promises to send us to glee so we do not wail
tricked by tick tock
Tricked by time, the ticks-the tocks of time.
PoetWhoKnowIt Dec 2012
Do not tick off the
kindly clock that stops and tocks
to you in whispers
ᗺᗷ Nov 2013
More often than is naught I carry the face of the villain.
Snared in this prison waiting for my turn to burn while
your fate is not so different from mine. My clocks still
yield some ticks and tocks yet before I go there stands a
few things you need to know:

They told me that your love was fatal, though failed to
hear the laughter of irony from behind their heads. They
cried tales that you were toxic and I could not save my
lips from curling. They said that your presence in mine
would design the suffering for those around. I was told
that you would leave me up in smoke as if God still
plays with dice. Your middling cigarette spends just the
beginning of their lives packing yet I waged it my
whole life just to spend its remnants with you. Addictive
by nature so let me take my pick of a million other lips
to secure truth that it is you I am addicted to.

I want you to simmer my skin when the world is cold,
I want to cast you brighter than a hundred suns hold,
I want to steal breath from your chest and place it in mine,
I want to make your heart stop like an eight-sided sign,
I want you to move my pistons and ignite my core,
I want you to saturate me as I lay on your shore,
I want to find what it is to go out with a bang,
I want to be that picture that fits in no frame.

I want to get you out of my head but you are
my song on repeat,
my hole that’s too deep,
my nights with no sleep,
my words when I speak.

Yet alas I hail from a pack known as Montague while
you bear the brand of Capulet. They will never render
us free in this life so when my time finally comes to a
burning halt, and my life flashes before my eyes, just
know that you will be the only thing I see in the next.
Tap, tap, on roof tops.
Tic, tock, the clock tocks.
Inside, what a cold night,
Rain drops on roof tops.

Splish, splash, in wet spots.
Blip, bloop, bubbles pops.
Outside, puddles in parking lots,
Rain drops on roof tops.

Drip, drop, on wet a box.
Flip, flop, my slippers flop.
Outside, in rain jackets,
Rain drops on roof tops.

Quack, quack, go ducks.
Beep, beep, cars and trucks.
Outside, the traffic stops,
Rain drops on roof tops.

Tap, tap, on roof tops.
Tic, tock, the clock tocks.
Inside, what a cold night,
Rain drops on roof tops.
Aztec Warrior Jul 2016
Love Maven**

In the moonlight of heaven
I see you floating
on notes of no beginning,
no end.
Taking that farm boy’s arm,
going where your feet just wanna go,
going to some ‘natural fun’...
                                                  

Thinking of a life lost
in tones of forest green
and what could have been,
I know what it means
to get down, get down
where there is a lively funky sound.
‘Ipsimama’, ‘ipsimama’.
                                                          

Time, in all dimensions
doesn’t recognize the ‘genius of love
or its love maven.
It just tick tocks,
tick tocks until
‘hiditihi, hipitiho’
‘bohannon’, bohannon’,
the music stops!

Aztec Warrior/redzone 5.30.16
.... thanks for reading..
this poem was written for a good friend at another poetry site, so I hope you all like it as well... enjoy the music link: "Genius of Love"

https://youtu.be/uwYGAOCgtks
Sarina Jan 2014
I have searched for a year, who gave you two hearts
and did not bother to
cross-stitch, knit them together to touch –

more and more
you have become the day that my clock broke
and the ticks sounded like my lips
reaching out for yours, and how you never kissed me
so the tocks never happened.
Mind - tripping eyes subconsciously getting lost in grandfather clock.
Thoughts frolicking through fields that time could never stop.
From a lotus flower shinning bright from rejuvenation.
Born to all things new, putting the past in stagnation.
No matter the hardship, there's never a need to let petals start wilting over time elapsed.
Grandfather clock never stops, there's only so much vitamin d the day allows to grasp.
From this it's learned we must water our own apple blossom, one commonly missed,
As we search for the perfect bouquet of eternal bliss.
Yet it projects good fortune and releases hopeful vibes.
Grandfather clock couldn't let memory forget it, even if it were tried.
Apple blossom in hand, into daisy fields memory wallows about.
Holding tightly to what’s left of innocence, youth cannot run out.
What a gentle smell carried through the breeze, the sun with warmth to share.
When grandfather clock strikes a certain time, reflections will take me there.
When time is due, a valley is to be embraced.
Within which lay a single lily, in which happiness is grace.
Grace can be given all around, especially to those closest.
Even when you’re the only bud bloomed, the only lily floating on the surface.
In fact, the lily of the valley is grandfather clock’s key.
The only one to break through the surface; the code to set time free.
With not much else around, we work with what we’ve got.
But happiness doesn’t exist so give it another shot.
Happiness is something we must create; our own bouquet of eternal bliss.
So as grandfather clock tics & tocks…. tic…. tock…
I toss a single black rose at twelve on the dot…time stops.
Farewell may be forthcoming, but rebirth has already been assumed.
Thanks to you my bouquet has been created, my blissful soul has bloomed.
March 8, 2013
L Gardener Sep 2013
"Did you count our hours?
Tally up tick-tocks?"

No.
The tick-tocks ticked me off.
I cracked.
I cracked glass faces.
Keeping track of mantles, walls, and wrists.
Time is so human it's creepy.
Watches watch you.
Hands move wiser.
That ******* glass face again
and this giant thing
looming in the corner is not
anybodies grandfather.
Trying to seem friendly while
it all slowly steals your life away.
Losing trick-track of our hours,
over and over.
sabrine Apr 2013
Time can be measured in
Days and months
Time can be measured in
Kisses and hugs

Time can be measured in
Tragedies and pain
Time can be measured in
How many lions are tamed

Time can be measured in
Clouds in the sky
Time can be measured in
Tears that I cry

Time can be measured in
Tests taken
Time can be measured in
Plates of bacon

Time can be measured in
Promises broken
Time can be measured in
Words spoken

Time can be measured in
Ticks and tocks
Time can be measured in
Seconds on the clock

Time can be measured in
Various ways
Time can be measured in
Months and days

Time can be measured in
However you like
But my favorite measurement
Is the melting of ice
i wrote this in 5 minutes and i put it on here because it reminds me of a children's book and who doesn't love (quiet) children???
Elias Apr 2018
A meal in the morning is made to sustain till noon.
A meal at noon keeps dinner in tune.
The schedule is precise with each meal separated,
By the ticks and tocks of a internal clock.

Yet here the feast has begun.
Too soon for lunch, too late for breakfast, yet just in time to spoil the dinner,
Just as the apple spoiled the dawn of man.

And here my feast has begun.
My insatiable heart, attacks my mind,
Images of what is and what could be make me blind.
The prospect of another taste, spoiling the old bond.
The place where a feast had been done.

The budding plates wisked into my thoughts,
I remind myself,
She's the only one.
Monica Rose Aug 2010
Five stories up, I watch the people
Miniature lives I see them go by
Thoughts. Loves. Burdens. Losses.
Complexities I will never know
Broken into fractions
Tiny particles, spectacles.
We are dust.
And time ticks, tocks.
Never once it stops.
Kara Rose Trojan Sep 2011
There was a squandering ember that climbed her spinal chord
and lit the deteriorating birchwood on the peach-fuzzed tea lamps.

When those stairwells cramped and swelled with staggered liquid terraces
in the foundational pin-cushion that cradled family after family.

Woe begone chants that railed support beams moaning under elemental abuse.

A litter of ghost kittens coiling underfoot where the rug
used to yawn before the grandfather clock,
now senile and rotting with absent-minded tick-tocks.

Inside her streetcorner, the music was that
monkey hopping to street ***** blue notes on somber ropes.

The air thick with the regal, chunky vibe
of batting eyes, flirty sighs, and bourbon.

Between the buildings again...
embraced with the same warm feeling that
entrances your fingertips, lips, and ears when within a man's arms.

In this city, Love is those two birds on that same powerline
that bowed and ebbed with summer's sweet sigh.
C S Dec 2013
If you counted up all the seconds we spent tweeting,
All the minutes  we spent repeating,
All the hours we spent faking this thing-
"#YOLO", we call it.
If all 7 billion of us added up,
How many lives could we make
With the tick-tocks we spent talking about their brevity?
How many lives could we have saved, changed, re-arranged
With the attitude of using that one life to make a difference,
Instead of abusing the battle cry of a short life to do useless, irresponsible ****.
Calories, pranks, drugs, lust, rebellion.
Do you feel stupid for the things you bought with YOLO now?
'Cause you got it wrong.
Your life will flash before your eyes,
But will yours be worth watching?
It all counts.
But did you make it count?
Vamika Sinha Jul 2015
Time: 1
Us: 0

Will it always be like this?

Swinging our racquets at Einstein's illusion.
Singing, singing, singing 'Stop
the World I Wanna Get Off
With You'
when nobody hears
over the relentless tick-tocks.
As
     as
the clock's hands
push
         push
pull us together,
apart.

Hey, you.
Are we lovers or are we opponents?
Let's look at the scoreboard.

Time: 1
Us: 0

In school, they taught us perseverance.
So we keep
dancing, dancing, dancing
                                              around
the hands of the clock.
I'm on number 3 and
you face me.
What's it like on number 9?
What's it like to be on the edge of
the next hour,
the next day,
the next big thing?
You're on number 9, I'm on number 3.
I face you, you face me.
Are we lovers or are we opponents?
I face you,
                   you face me.

So easy for us to...
So easy for us to love, but
so easy for us to leave.
So easy to fight, to
wrap our hands
                            around
each other's throats
simultaneously.
So easy to embrace, so
easy to walk away
when you are the west and I am the east.

I'll ask you again:
Are we lovers or are we opponents?
Eyes flit up to the scoreboard,
even though
                      we don't want to look
away from each other.

Time: 1
Us: 0

The ball is in no one's court anymore.
No more back and forth,
stichomythia, repartee.
Nor round and
                           round
when it's all an illusion,
isn't it?

Don't look.
Don't bring it up.

Time: 1        
Us: 0

The figures are getting bolder, louder
than the ticking.
Tell me, tell me, before
you move to 10
and our angles get skew,
tripping over the clock's hands,
because we forgot the steps of
our dance.
Tell me, tell me, what it's like
when you see me
all the way from number 9
while I'm on number 3.

The scoreboard's screeching
like a train ready to leave.

Time: 1
Us: 0

The audience is already beginning to clap.
They have loved us
and so have we.
We put on quite the show,
enough to rival Djokovic or Murray.
But neither of us will walk out with gold.
Not when we've lost to an abstraction
that can swallow us into
memories.
We get silver medals.
Around our necks, choking
but we clasp them tightly
so they can sparkle on our chests.
My silver beams to you,
                                           your silver beams to me.
On and off,
a Morse code speech.
When we can't speak,
                                       can't breathe,
that seems to suffice.

Here is a case of beautiful irony:
How did we meet?
Your eyes
                 saw in
my eyes
               that silver gleam.
My eyes
               saw in
your eyes
                 the very same thing.
Remember:
I face you, you face me.
Are we lovers or are we opponents?

The scoreboard screams:

Time: 1
Us: 0

I bought a watch today, why
did I do that?
I'm so smart but
I'm so stupid.
I face you, you face me.
It's not an illusion, is it?
Look at me.
Is it?

Time: 1
Us: 0

We're finished.
But then how could we have ever won
when neither of us knew how to play tennis?

We look at each other
so the scoreboard can dissolve
instead of us.
Like your eyes
                          in my eyes
a tethering glance,
could hold us in an eternal position.
Like a single look
could sustain us
stationary.
I face you, you
                          start to leave.

It doesn't matter now.
Everything's spilling out
on the loudspeaker.
(And for once, you don't wish to seek this one truth.)

Time: 1
Us: 0

It will always be like this.

Time: one.
Us: love.
I'm seeing too many loves becoming victims to Time and Distance.
Third Eye Candy Feb 2013
Heathens -
in heaven's lobby
flock
to barter
for Magic 'Shrooms
with pop rocks... and pancakes
and leaf-green brownies.
new to the scene;
the Son of Man
holds a motley court,
then wanders off
to fetch Picasso - Lassoed
from his cups, his Love that must Love
his genius... doubtless,
cloud-scrawling
huge pendulous *******
in Elysium; for no one at all.
better Pablo
should tend bars      that set mobs free
than one god's toddler, with long odds
against Bacchus - should ever
small-talk-speak
to the godless
or worse...
preach.

" Better Sins to love.. " The Spaniard once taught...
A Lover's Urge is born in forms of weakness.... adorned in all Might -
bathed in blessed contradiction,
a Lingam for a Yoni's dream of stiff drinks
and pliable men, with strong arms.
a blue fiction  on Calvary -
nailed to the softest
cross.

Between thieves,
an honor, double
parked

with bucket seats brimming with moonlight,
and her knickers
tossed.

Picasso asks for absinthe
to be sent
post haste
and polished off -
by all
his better angels he had guillotined
with dull snails,
and fallen  
harps

ones -  he stole,  to de-tune
a flat fifth of Cuttysark
for a deaf
****,  [but no mute ]
a portrait, ****
and is soon
bought...

lust
sleeps then -
with both Eyes;  
Locked on
One of
God's.

like a deer
in a Head-light's
Gospel...
now, a Minotaur on the
Autobahn -
stalking
it.


II

Heathens
in heaven's lobby
recite ' Howl '
as Ginsberg, walks over hot coals
and spicy psalms; glowing wanton
in white grass; with a very
cherry ****.
And a wise throng, cobbles...
****** -
they rob
Peter of his  toga,
leaving nothing wrong.
but no less ' On '
they laugh hard;  and wake the dead
asking  them for new songs
to set    their false alarms
in lofty Tic' Tocks  
of Eternity's
clock.
Bible on a snooze bar
for at least that long
or  someone
knocks.

As if  "Hello."  
Spoke the Whole World into Being -
And " Goodbye."
misspoke, and
trailed
off...
CloudedVision Sep 2018
Sneakers, sandals, slippers, or flips
Flops and, socks, or maybe crocs.
Vans, and addida, champion too
Oh the many shoes to go through

But here is a man who knows shoes well
He has much to teach and tell
This man is named Mr. Ned
He has a shoe on his head

Mr. Ned went to school
The university of Crocs&Socks
Now all he wears is comfort shoes
Things that make him feel good and cool

So now lets hear the story
The story of Mr. Ned
The story of he got to where he is now
A story of his march ahead

Mr. Ned was a poor little boy
Grown up in the city of This Way And That
But poor little Ned had a no bed
No where to rest, but it was all his best

So Mr. Ned made a choice
He would travel abroad to study shoes
It was a good cause
To make sure no foot could lose

He went to school
The school of tick tocks
A place where he learned
Of sandals with clocks

He then moved on to Toe Boot School
Where he learned his boots
Inside and out
Making sure to know it all well through

But poor Mr. Ned didn't like any of those shoes, they made his feet hurt or uncomfortable
So he chose to move on to Sneaker Squeaker, a school of silent sound

But Ned didn't like this school one bit
It was all silent, but the squeak of the sneak, you could never be happy, making no noise, so he chose to move on
To the school of Shoe Boys

But when he arrived
The school wasn't for him
They chased him out
Throwing hard doll toys

That school was for girls
A lot of them too
The smell and the hair
Made Ned coocoo

He then decided
"Proffesional I should go"
So he chose to go
To the school of Shoe Snow

But that school was cold
Except for his feet
They were warm
Even through the sleet

So he left being freezing
And went to a beach
But all he found there
Was shoes white with bleach

Why you should ask?
Well it's really quite simple
The people love shoes
Not the yellow of sand

They want their shoes clean
Not fat, wide, or lean
So they made sure to put bleach
Where ever a shoe may land

But Mr. Ned decided that even
That wasn't for him
So he took a bus
To City Where Ever Whim

There he found a school of Crocs
Crocs with socks
Some shoes were black, others were red
Yet nothing there, was a sight of dread

The style was intricate
Fancy yet easy
A sock must be put in every croc
A sock and shoe was comfy
And made you want to walk

So Mr. Ned finally found what he loved
A sock with a Croc a style of uniqueness
A sock of DeWine, with a basic Shoe
Made it seem, like anything he could do

He marched up a hill
With a smile on his face
And a paintbrush in hand
Oh the color you could make your crocs
Yet it always washed off, with soap-a-krill

Socks with crocs were what he needed
He made sure to stand tall
And to announce his discovery
To all passerbys's he meeted

Mr. Ned now wears crocs and socks
A croc on his head
And socks on his feet
No heavy thing could ever slow him
Not even the eight of of a rock solid block

So please go ask of Mr. Ned of his journ
He has made it all around the world
But now Mr. Ned needs some rest
He lays down on his bed
Knowing He found the best.
Neon lights Oct 2014
Framed so poetically, there it stays
Never steps out of its flimsy boundary line but
it takes in everything with him
Inside a a static sea frame, there
roam all the wild guesses you
took:
all blue
all trapped, as erratic and diminishing as it was named.
Was you were to throw that time when
you tried to take to the sea
all into it?
There is no need to make me open my eyes to see something as obvious as this for a even a blind man can see it so crystal clear
in his pitch black vision
I'm closing my eyes and hope it stops
but

   I remember waking up
   somewhere in midnight term
   drowning in salty seas
   and making bitter coffee to
   recede the former taste.
   I found your diary on the sea
   shore with all of the demerara
   sugar sand
   disconnecting wires in my mind
   with overflowing water in the
   bathtub
   and getting electrocuted.
   Alarms when off buzzing with
   tick tocks
   I found myself with
   a pacemaker also
   your dying digital clock you had
   since forever, displaying
   blurs of phobia


Am I wrong to be trying
to breath underwater
Would it be right to despise
the blue sea that should soothes us
that turned grey for all our
fears we threw in without hesitate
I put all of my fears into this sea,
as a glitched version of your
deceiving eye hue,
demerara sugar on the edge of
your lips lingering in my coffee
chronomentrophobia oh thalassophobia,
yet I was to choose between icy cold ocean air and
falling into clocks' icicle-like hands.
This
is much of an error as it is
a tsunami washing us with a tide of heartache like
over sugared coffee with still bitter taste that melted into
my inner cheeks when I had ulcers
and
you wearing wristwatch while holding my hands.
I spent the day researching phobias and learnt that there are phobia for almost everything. I am not suffering from any of two of this phobias. I also spent the day learning about sugar types and pacemaker and coffee. Sometimes I think phobias are beautiful in some unexplainable ways.
Micheal Bevan Jul 2010
Upon the edge of hidden worlds,
I am temptress to my own,
Endless abandon in abundance,
In this loss I call home.

It's called subconsciousness,
Subject only to abstract,
I am witness and betrayer,
It recoils, reacts,
In a way of profound precision,
Butterfly incision.

Winged whim,
I got lost,
But was found again,
Within.

Shadow like blood,
Dripped from my finger tips,
Down the length of my hand,
From where the metal slips,
And digs,
Finding oil,
I react,
Recoil.

I'm bleeding,
I was meant to,
I didn't mean it,
That wasn't true.

Butterfly incision,
Madness precision,
I unravel,
Recoil,
Rebound,
And boil.

I am the blood of a shadow,
Whose door I dare knock,
Who has granted me its time,
But it ticks,
And it tocks.

It's fate,
Were fate death
So kindly seen,
And I,
Puppet to the piece,
***** and unclean,
Dance a pirouette,
Every step,
I forget,
The value of self,
The face or the hand,
Second sided shelf,
Where we understand,
No one knocks,
While time ticks,
While time tocks.

I drift and slip,
With every drop from my finger tips,
And stare at death while it smiles,
Bleeding teeth and ****** lips,
Winged whim
And a moments while.

A twist and turn,
Contortion spin and contended twirl,
Falling silent and forever,
Upon the edge of hidden worlds.
r Nov 2014
time -
such care in counting
the essence of

measured twice
- cut once
if wisely

a hole in a rock -
an atomic clock
ticking tocks

aligned in space
light years and dog years
- lines on a face

a living will -
a fleeting baby's smell

- shadows weighed
at the end of the day

darkening sky
drawing nigh -
palms high

- it is time.

r ~ 11/4/14

— The End —