"lubricated" poems
I remember the way
the alcohol
lubricated our words to each other
and she told me those three
poisonous words:
"I love you"
Except she added
my name to the end
to make sure I knew
how important it was.
"You're the only
person I've said that to,"
She told me that night
as we parted ways
The next day she told
me that it didn't count
and that she was being
dramatic
and I remained in place
amongst those
who function better
as shadows,
withering under her
light,
hoping to hear the
meaningless words
again.
Jun 15, 2017
Jun 15, 2017 at 1:36 AM UTC
Whisky breath and
cold sweat stench
fill this room
as there are fewer hours
till work
than will sober me up.
One last cigarette
One more affirmation
To keep the promises
we will slumber past
their breaking point
Class can wait
Work can wait
Life waits for none
I wait
For life to
Become
More than cycle
Of light and dark
Of stagnant art
And stagnant words
That still drip
From the corners
Of my ethyl lubricated
Mouth.
That still pool in
Your soul as
You drift to sleep
Goodnights said to every
Underage youth now
Napping away
Morning rush.
Apr 5, 2013
Apr 5, 2013 at 11:27 PM UTC
A true story of a chance gathering of strangers in the back room of a Gelato Parlor *** restaurant, two years ago, in a little village near the bay, on a land surrounded by vineyards. Come visit.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Gelato Nation
There is a place,
location secret,
mine to keep,
mine with which
you to tease,
make you envious,
a back room 'office'
jealous guarded
by a barkeep,
whose chosen invites sweeps
you into a reality that is
what you will it to be.
But nota bene, note well,
remembrances of things swell
from your past be the
only tongue spoken here.
Code word entry only,
a shared whisper.
Perhaps One Woman,
may reveal its pleasures,
if she so chooses,
which are:
gelato laughs, poetry snaps,
Beatle songs sung ensemble,
by rag tag strangers
self-collected accidentally,
sung de rigeur off key
by voices lubricated by
cognac, laughter, and
the coldest of white wines,
issue of the very soil
upon which we sit.
Words to value properly,
not in my possess to capture
the few moments in time when;
Strangers transform themselves
into a triple A nation united,
that will never be
S&P; downgraded.
A holy alliance
celebrating July 4th
all night long,
all participants
signatory witnesses to
its gelato conception,
as well as pallbearers
to its last drink dissolution,
the fullness of its lifetime
a vintage of a few hours extant,
a vintage, once drunk, is
a history, forever gone.
Mixologists please record:
One playwright, a psychologist, bond trader and a social scientist
with a dash of museum director,
and do not forget the
Hundred Year Old Woman,
whose Dowager Princess Daughter
(she, a mere eighty)'
from Central Park West
clarifies all of life dilemmas with
the singular analytical tool of:
But is it good for the Jews?
**But t'is the barkeep
who is the leavening
in this evenings human
pastry-petrie dish.**
He makes the pastiche,
the ions of personalities,
coalesce best,
guitar strummer,
singer of songs that were our
multiple national anthems
when we were pseudo-rebels
starting out on our
long and winding roads.
Long the King of the Keep!
Long live the memory of our
Gelato Nation,
may it stay sweet in
our antique collection of
the best moments of
our intersecting lives.
July 2011
Jul 4, 2013
Jul 4, 2013 at 6:00 PM UTC
Feet stewed in their own sweat
lubricated grit under nails
paid to meditate and eat TV
Oh what froth there is
in a pyramid!
Nov 5, 2014
Nov 5, 2014 at 1:51 PM UTC
Seven years I lived my life, fading from reality. Crossing into machinery. Robotics with which I am so unfamiliar. Machined, greased, lubricated parts. Built with a purpose. A meaningless purpose. Destined for failure.
A broken down machine I stand. Sit. Lay. Run. Work. Play. Slide. Cursed and wretched as the demons which haunt the dreams of the fallen. I rise above. Skyrocketing through reason. Through the seventh layer of Heaven and Hell. On a false sense of cloud nine I currently float…awaiting the plummet.
Its falling away from me. I sail through a shattered sea of broken glass. I closed my eyes and the tears could not flow. Blocked by my eyelids, restricting emotion. After all of this, I am amazed. The wall could be broken. Forgotten faded memories of which I have no say.
Of past. Of present. Of gifts. Of futures. Of lists. Lists of black. Hit lists in my head. I live in my head. I am not what I wish. I am what I’m not. I am what I dream. A scream. A cry. Laying here, blank as the page on which I cannot create a scene. A scene behind my eyes, yet I cannot attain it on paper. These words flow meaninglessly, but not slow.
Daedalus, Icarus, Thrice. Three times I roam. Randomized plains of thought, laid out on a digital page. Keys, not a pen. Ones and Zeros, not ink. Screens, not pages. Neat, not sloppy…yet my words do not understand one another… nor do I….
If we make the mainland, this song would not be made. Epic beauty, formed through misfortune and tragedy. Oh son…I beg you…keep a steady wing. For you are the only one who means anything to me. My wings are made of melting, shredding, fading elements. The sun, heating, lighting, someday dying. I understand that nothing is as it may seem. Nor is any seam as true as the seamstress believed. The Gods did not take the only thing which meant anything to you, father of legend. Your son is not dead…only afire. Acquired by the forces you believed to be merciful.
Feb 8, 2012
Feb 8, 2012 at 9:22 PM UTC
Too many expert voices lay a claim on your shape,
You are either too full, or
You have gone too far,
Too many moulds get thrusted at your face,
To some you resemble a pear,
But they feel your should look more double cherry,
And whichever fruit you succeed in turning into,
You still, are a tad too hairy
But then does anyone ever tell you,
That sometimes ice cream will be the only answer
And that is just fine?
That a bedtime prayer can be enough night-time routine,
Which needn't include expensive lotions and creams,
That you need fats as well as you need protein,
As also each little gift that Nature crafted lovingly
For this marvel of a creation that is your Being-
So that your skin is fed and living,
And your knees are lubricated and sprightly,
And your blood is rich and active,
And your soul-
No one will give you
"How I brightened my soul in 4 weeks" tutorials,
But you ought to set your happy soul-goals,
A tummy rub in a sunny lawn on a lazy winter afternoon/
A drenching bath in heavy July rains/
A spontaneous poem effortlessly jotted down on a napkin
Level-happy!
And when you're that happy you will know
That you aren't a cut-out on public display,
Not a fruit,
not a diet,
not a fad that peaks and wanes,
You are an everlasting uniqueness,
You are an undefined shape,
You are that collection of rare energies
That only comes custom-made.
Nov 14, 2018
Nov 14, 2018 at 4:28 PM UTC
Settle into darkness, naturally, and take your cue from unoiled gears jolting forward only to lure you into false stability and lose velocity, stop suddenly, merge the definitions of stopping and falling by balancing the cart on the back of the tongue as sherbet dip dab’s your gums in 3…2…swallow down it drops FLASH past the oesophagus there’s your photo op show us some teeth show us some skin darlin’ begin to dissolve in stomach acid bile’s vile hold it down we will use force if necessary like handcuffs to a headboard excuse me sir may I see your ticket? Right you can’t sit here, you’re 3,4-methylenedioxymethamphphetamine, that’s upstairs you need to swing a left then straight up to the top floor not a bad view, you can’t miss it it’s got a hundred golden bulbs flashing hypothalamus, no we’re not really bothered about our environment take the lift elevate heart rate
C-C-C-CRANK IT UP
to the cerebral cortex’s House of Mirrors home of distortion. What can we do for you sir? We like to pride ourselves in our ability to mess around with the wiring and stimulate receptors, all part of the Deluxe Mega Deal complete with moving walls, disco ball skin and a talking butterfly the size of a car crash for a limited time only whilst serotonin stocks last they fall as fast as the lubricated log flume SPLASH. Please remain seated until the end of the ride. Thrown out into the gift shop. £30 for a 12 hour come down. Come again soon.
Feb 15, 2015
Feb 15, 2015 at 9:12 AM UTC
I have love for you
Rooted in my jawbone
Your secret perfume
Convection heat in a back seat
I want your thin fingers
Tangled in the web of my ribs
I want to lose you
In the honeycombed purple layers of my heart tissue
I will cradle your head on my sternum
Letting my lungs do the work
If only
Your elbows were not so sharp
Then I would crave the dig of your fingernails
Your pastures of hair
The butterfly tremble of your lips
Speechless- words no longer hold the weight
My tongue on the novel curves of your sigh
Tasting the twenty summers of your growth
Trembling due to lack of oxygen
Trembling at the onset of lust
The kneading want of knuckle bones
Drawing me ever closer to the colors of light
Static in the stereo of the
Cerebral cortex
Bunched nerves
Shocked into submission
By your bleached bone canines
Open and breathe
The quick pinch endocrine valves
Releasing steam
Drape me with your skin
Wrap me up in your pulsing warm veins
I bleed blue
On every day of the week
I am deafened
By the rage of your heartbeat
I am stricken dumb
The symphony of your eyelids
Swelling in my chest a familiar lust
The wind from your eyelashes
Could blow us out of this winter
And right into spring
All the days of the year
I bleed blue
The dedication of your palm
On my cheek
Warms me like a leaf in sunlight
Peel me layer from layer
You will find no lies in between the pages
I am your machine
Waiting to be properly lubricated
I cannot wait for our first day under the sun
I can't wait to get you out of the fluorescent lights
Of the Assembly line
We will journey together to forgotten realms
And sleep beneath the strange constellations
May 10, 2013
May 10, 2013 at 2:00 PM UTC
Entering a world composed of surreal images
My mind must twist itself into difficult yoga poses
Attempting comprehension of the madness
Black aprons meander in rhythmic gyrations
Under harsh soul stealing luminescence
Lubricated with coffee to perform
Menial machinations miserably
I am but a tourist
On their macabre island full
With nightmarish denizens
Of this local purgatory
The poet dreamt of no circle
As dreadfully inhabited as this sinister strata
Easily a septante of sins sordidly succumbed to by soulless citizens
Apathetic arrogance masquerading as hospitality
While decency and morality are assaulted
According to the overlords abusive schedule
I am struck mute with paralytic paranoia
As I hurriedly set my offering upon the altar
And search for exact change
Mar 11, 2015
Mar 11, 2015 at 9:45 PM UTC
They scoot together slowly
Body language lubricated by *****
They are still awkward...
He tries to win favors with alcohol
And laughter.
She just goes along with it
Happy for attention
And free drinks.
An interesting courtship
Monitored by Pastor Smirnoff.
Jun 10, 2010
Jun 10, 2010 at 7:29 AM UTC
a mishap fudged together in a blur
by the onerous fate autonomy
a throw away girl
death addict
in a racket of echoes
fingernails
******* and spit
for relics of witchcraft
in a foot licking satanic ritual
she picked him
like a con mark
for the realization
of her shadow dream
to escape from form
in a shaking bed
spread herself wide
feeling the black sound
like musical water
to drown in
with weight
that holds immovable storms
of brazen villain's and glistening *****
who pumped her mouth like gas
for obliterations throat bashing she loved
causing the hideous end of herself
splayed straddled a ****** archaeology
of kisses withering in an ancient pudding
razor peeled ******* blooming
betrayed whorish curdling screams
in a deviant propulsion
glitter mucous and blood
drizzled from her lush red smeared lips
with tears of mascara
in a ghoulish basement
an object of desire for demons
on the ceiling
she abandons all hope
lubricated her **** and ****
opened her thighs
for a freakish novelty
of soaked vibrating machine gun tongues
for a hemorrhaging orgiastic suicide
her blade slit tongue
still undulating
and pinned it in bits
to a **** toy
******
for valentine's day
her love and guts like a buffet
glamorously featured
with photo pics
in Mademoiselle magazine
smiling cockeyed
drugged and staggering
she put a rope
around her neck
as if in an embrace
and blew her brains
a spiraling horror
of diabolical appeal
in a ghastly enterprise of roulette
of pants off dance off
scattered gauze bikini
and a head wreath of hair
glittered like a half-eaten pomegranate
under disco lights
Aug 18, 2020
Aug 18, 2020 at 12:01 PM UTC
O peaceful moon, shining gently o'er the fields,
In your soft light I see a tree, a hedge, a glistening pond;
And the soft night sounds of rustling reeds and swaying boughs
Intermingle with the nightly warfare of a million creatures.
But hark! From the new housing estate across the park
There comes a rather different sound. Through an open window
Comes the healthy thwack of flesh on flesh and muffled shrieks of joy
As Isaac and Wendy Bumsenfotze indulge themselves un peu.
Isaac's got his gasmask on, and his rubber flippers too
And (speaking candidly) looks an unattractive proposition
Especially now his skinny chest towers o'er his massive ********
All four mighty manly inches of it from tip to curlies.
Lying trussed up on their bed, atop its needed rubber sheeting,
Lies Sam, their well-trained patient pedigree crossbred donkey,
Upon whose good-natured, hirsute, unsuspecting person
Nameless atrocities have often been performed in Eros' name.
What are they going to do tonight? I bet you'll never guess.
Well, Wendy's strapped her ***** on and intends to use it first
On Ikey's waiting well-lubricated back end
And then it's Sam's turn and ***** the R.S.P.C.A.
And while Sam is getting poked by loving Wendy,
Old Ike will not be idle: camera-phone in one hand
And mail-order sjambok in the other, he'll record
Their motions and lacerate them both simultaneously.
Underneath his gasmask, Isaac gets a bit sweaty and excited,
And once their party's over all three will doze off:
A truly lovely scene. But they will be soon by woken by
The morning sun glittering on Wendy's cast-off legirons.
Dec 24, 2014
Dec 24, 2014 at 11:45 AM UTC
Perhaps I should take blame for
not laying specifics.
Or perhaps, for not in the moment
doubting her loyalty and
intervening.
In the game of dares,
she to kiss another, and,
regardless of gender,
not me.
I had said before,
"our physical embraces
and emotional turmoil
boiled into heated enamor
stays in our love, our bond,
our tie."
I believed honestly that she
would be wise enough
or calm enough
to say "No, I refuse it."
I believed she loved me enough to
know the boundary is real
and that when I said, "No",
I lacked sarcasm.
Or, I was not open enough to
list the specifics of what not
to do
and instead left too much open
to her imagination.
In that moment,
as the group of friends were amazed
at her polyamorous behavior
lubricated with *****
the fog of the mind,
and they laughed and
sent cheers outward,
I burned into the deepest rage humanly possible.
For that split second,
I debated leaving the party:
but, I was drunk, and the drive wasn't worth
such risk.
I debated yelling:
but it was her party to lead, not mine to destroy.
Instead, I sat in self-loathing,
hating myself so purely, but
I couldn't bring myself to be mad at her,
I don't think.
Again, the fog was floating.
I wanted to explode,
but instead imploded.
I wished for nothing but
to leave, to drink more to forget,
but instead I sit in rest
without sleep, concentration, peace,
but instead sit in pure hatred:
of what? Not her, not the girl,
but myself, for not doing enough,
not mattering enough.
Feb 1, 2015
Feb 1, 2015 at 11:37 PM UTC
Deep sighs at day break
Our heated surface no match for the inferno inside
Raging for the ache of your dark touch
Sweat slicks already lubricated flesh
I curve into the muscled wall of your chest
Closer
I need it
I need you
Appalachia shadows criss cross fogged windows
Penetrating stories written along their dewed edges
I writhe beneath your whispers of
"Come for me"
Body bowed, tight like violin strings
Played by expert, elegant fingers
Shudder. Surrender
The seat of my soul flooding with pleasure, with release
Request granted
May 13, 2016
May 13, 2016 at 9:30 AM UTC
Brain root receptors taken hold
electrically charged cannadis synapsis
I smoked with jay, **** followed and road
it went so deep, straight to the core
back to when I couldnt see any more
Too many revolutions in my head
11,000 or so, with many more to go
pHARMicutIcals they ******* HARM U man
Fructose, Aspartame, Floride stain
the weather man is ******* with our brains
Just flush the **** straight down the drain
***** Leaves a resin stain
on the synapsis of the brain
Lubricated, Nurished
with no neurological pain
Dec 18, 2011
Dec 18, 2011 at 6:13 PM UTC
*so here he was stripped naked in his bedroom
aloof lost in ****** imagination
his mind swimming with thoughts of big ****
curvy hips and long legs
how they looked without impediment of clothing
he pictured his engorged member between a lass
thighs
his wet tongue swirling around her ******
leaving a trail of warm saliva on the areola
occasionally his head would swivel scanning the
**** magazine he held on his left hand
a cross scrutiny drawn all over the teenage face
as if he was admiring Da Vinci's art
the right hand lubricated with lotion stroked up and down
in a rhythmic motion
he was breathing hard as the hand performed self loving
there was something about the ****** expression
pleasure painted all over the contours of his flame:
it was ecstasy but not in religious sense
his eyelids would droop from time to time and the lustful
smile would camouflage inner conflict
the tempo of jacking increased and the magma started rising
eyes still glued on the mag
his body started to spasm
it wasn't just a little twitchy ****** it was a volcano
of pleasure that shook every inch of his skin
the magazine fell he clutched the blanket and clenched his mouth shut
he looked at his sloppy handful junk and thought guiltily
what have i done......*
Oct 6, 2015
Oct 6, 2015 at 12:12 PM UTC
My Copal Square bladed shutter
Calibrated, adjusted, lubricated,with tlc
re-captures fields of Shirley poppies
tight roping Nevada's mountainous ranges.
Jul 4, 2012
Jul 4, 2012 at 3:48 PM UTC
I have heard
backhanded compliments,
lubricated words,
empty promises.
Politics.
Liquid crack
In every corner store.
It gets weirder,
our government
plotriffic thriller
heavy on the story line.
Nations’ history,
strings of violence.
Ancestors.
Mocking my dreams
shedding tears
of joy, unlikely.
Within my dreams,
as one,
we mourn together
for that day,
our way of life
taken.
Jul 20, 2011
Jul 20, 2011 at 11:15 AM UTC
As I pass through the wish e washy
Politics of my superficial mind
The many false faces
My eternal being remains
Frustrated by the ineptitude
Of my political , dishonest mind
As my oceanic being is covered
By a sheet of crusty cold ice
The great masses in my being
Feel disconnected and disillusioned
By the elitist aspects of the
Political mind who live on top
But as I begin to feel my internal council
A silence from within vibrates with
As the many chattering politicians
Scurry and busy themselves
I begin to drop deeper, to know
My many political shapes
How I dream to know the many
Characters of my political being
As to understand the lawmakers
In is to understand my life
Where do I find the honest council
And who are the corrupt lying voices
That whisper in my ear and make
Secret deals behind closed doors
Far far away from my conscious mind
Who is that mischievous characters
Always causing trouble the black adder
Although I do feel large and honest
Politicians within my soul
For they all sit around a long table
That stretches from my solar plexus
Up into my deep open chest
Dressed in light blue I hear them
Tirelessly working shuffling
Their many papers
Recording and studying making their
Many decisions and communicating
With all my many distant parts
Finding a new intimacy with my self
I unlock many doors within me
As I search to please the
Great masses within my soul
On entering the outside world
My being shuffles past the many
Black adders with a chuckle
As he begins to enjoy
Their mischievous ways
My political mind becomes
Purified by the the emotional
Depths of my being , as I am
Infused with a deep ocean blue
From my bottomless heart
As my path in this world
Becomes lubricated in a rich oily blue
Like a giant blue whale I effortless glide
And as I meet the other I stand
Within my my golden heart
As my depths live on the outside
For I carry my heart on my sleave
As I search for the other a thousand
Golden streams from my heart
Descend into me
Penetrating all of me
To find all my honesty
As I seek to unlock the other
By unlocking many doors in me
The political mind can be mischievous
But it can be a great servant
When in touch with our deep blue depths
And the golden threads leading to our heart
Apr 19, 2014
Apr 19, 2014 at 2:50 PM UTC
It isn't about ***
The act of making love is not the steam
For the stream is something more
It is the capture of eyes
The brush of knees
Intertwining fingers
And the comfortable silence
It is being so close and yet unable to touch
The heat building within bitten lips
Knowing glances
Bodies dancing without movement
To the same record spinning in two heads
In two separate places
The steam is the promise of thought
The what could be;
The letting go
My heart beats
In patchwork patterns
Stitched together by the spark in your eye
It is the body temperature rising
As you make me into a volcano
Pressure building
The lava in my veins
My emotions pushing to the surface
I am steam.
You make me want to let go.
We are careful with clockwork precision
Trapped in routine like well oiled machines
Steaming at the seams
Waiting to break free
The nuts and bolts loosening in the lubricated alcoholic air of freedom
Though now is not the time to fall apart
Yet to come together
One glorious engine in motion
Bellowing steam at the station
Waiting
To let go
Sep 7, 2016
Sep 7, 2016 at 1:00 PM UTC
pile of blankets--vaguely human shaped bed lump
white curtains, snake skin bundle
crepuscular lit window opposed wall
cranky cellphone sounds
slither-hand. blind pat.
that old song and dance.
11:17 am
self medicated coma
consciousness comes too soon
post alcohol lubricated dry throat
dryer tumbled bones
dehydrated nectarine shrunken head ache
body floats to surface
ice on road out of control alligator death spinning head
body floating too fast car crash at bed foot
hand eye coordinates aim for dresser
slow foot movement high speed camera precision-every frame counts
reflective closet door shows thick skull and hollow skin, too translucent for comfort. blue veins battling to breathe
squemish rattling breath shuts up
let the stomach talk.
blurted burps stomach acid cacaphony
rorshach stained carpet matches drapes
depression is a thick milkshake
Jul 1, 2015
Jul 1, 2015 at 12:31 AM UTC
The Octopi Jars
by Michael R. Burch
Long-vacant eyes
now lodged in clear glass,
a-swim with pale arms
as delicate as angels'...
you are beyond all hope
of salvage now...
and yet I would pause,
no fear!,
to once touch
your arcane beaks...
I, more alien than you
to this imprismed world,
notice, most of all,
the scratches on the inside surfaces
of your hermetic cells...
and I remember documentaries
of albino Houdinis
slipping like wraiths
over the walls of shipboard aquariums,
slipping down decks'
brine-lubricated planks,
spilling jubilantly into the dark sea,
parachuting through clouds of pallid ammonia...
and I know now in life you were unlike me:
your imprisonment was never voluntary.
Originally published by Triplopia and The Poetic Musings of Sam Hudson. Keywords/Tags: Octopus, Octopi, Medusa, Sea Angel, Angel, Angels, Nature, Sea, Ocean, Aquarium, Aliens, Imprisonment, Prison, Ship, Ships, Shipwreck
Sep 8, 2020
Sep 8, 2020 at 4:20 AM UTC
We're being faked out,taken out,shaken down, by skulduggery so rife in London town,and we wait for it,salivate for it,cant get enough of it, we even pray for it.
Lubricated,down the pan and flushed away by 'the man',ending up or bending down,it's all the same to London town.
Don't try to tell me,that this is right,or we should bite the bullet and accept our lot,it's a dot on the card when life is so hard that we have to stand and fight.
The 'establishment' might not like us
but those ******** in their close knit groups,storm troop us every day and take away our pride,chide us,ride us,grind us down,remould us,reminding us how cold it is when we can't afford to pay for heat
don't let them beat you,defeat you,cheat you 'cause we'll get through
and do them down.
Life is like that,
London town,it's krap
It's going to snap
to fall apart
the streets will rise,the building's fall and down at Mansion house they'll call us ****
well, that don't hurt a bit
Let them **** on caviar and sip sauvignon at the trough, while poor men cough their lungs up,
brung up,wrung out,strung up and finally thrown down,
why would anyone want to live and try,have children who die in
London town?
Aug 19, 2013
Aug 19, 2013 at 11:39 PM UTC
my clockwork's not quite working right, but it's too late to fix me
they can't see breaking from the outside, they only see I'm living.
Moments; twitches,
they told me I must be careful not to rip my stitches.
Not yet turned to rust inside---
I've been waiting for the moment---
to join the glorified
the few
the beautiful
the delicate souls who cry like mine
those so filled up with life they died;
too attached to the delicate sway of life to live
to connected to the pulse of earth to give and walk about on
two feet, called bipedal motion, supposedly coming about as our ancestors moved from arborreal terrain to grasslands, some millions of years ago...
Science disects the tangible, but we've yet to find diamonds in our eyes that might cut what we cannot hold.
And so we'll never understand our souls.
If it has no bones can it break?
can it shatter if you shake
it too hard, will it fall off of its shelf?
Is our soul collective, or only in the self.
it's clockwork, pure clockwork
we're wound up and allowed to wind down
out
understanding that gears might fracture
misfire
malfunction
give out
go backwards
then perhaps even forwards again
how tightly are you wound?
or lubricated, my friend?
could you use a helping hand? a smack to get you going
the question's not where
nor when
nor how
nor apparently even... whether our insides are showing.
Break me down like clockwork,
take me to a shop but
they'll only shake their heads and tell you
this models got no replacement parts
best throw it away
get a new one
but I can't.
This ticker's all I've got.
it can't go backwards sideways or in circles
but time
travels
and I'll work it until I drop
May 15, 2013
May 15, 2013 at 2:03 AM UTC