"tickings" poems - Hello Poetry

I can't remember the last time I lived somewhere that didn't have running water. I wonder if it's actually happened. We're moving a maximalist aesthetic into a minimalist situation. I just want a glass of water, a hot shower, a working toilet. Ive never been so tired, and I've never smelled so bad. My leg are two masses of limp pain, my hands are stiff, calloused wads of meat. My right eye is experiencing a mild swelling, that I'd ******* pray isn't pink eye, if I believed in god, which gets harder from here. Illuminated in the dark of midnight by computer light, with only the tickings of a cheap watch for condolence. Their voices complain from downstairs. Then laugh. Then return. Trinkets chitter around. Rooms full of garbage. If you hit it softly enough, can you still tell you're at the bottom?

0

Jul 4, 2014

Jul 4, 2014 at 4:52 PM UTC

austin-heath

"Practically a Lego House [Also, I Smell Like ****

I can't remember the last time I lived somewhere that didn't have running water. I wonder if it's actually happened. We're moving a maximalist aesthetic into a minimalist situation. I just want a glass of water, a hot shower, a working toilet. Ive never been so tired, and I've never smelled so bad. My leg are two masses of limp pain, my hands are stiff, calloused wads of meat. My right eye is experiencing a mild swelling, that I'd ******* pray isn't pink eye, if I believed in god, which gets harder from here. Illuminated in the dark of midnight by computer light, with only the tickings of a cheap watch for condolence. Their voices complain from downstairs. Then laugh. Then return. Trinkets chitter around. Rooms full of garbage. If you hit it softly enough, can you still tell you're at the bottom?

26

no one could ever understand why i loved clocks so much i would hold them to my ears and listen endlessly to their tickings i would imagine strange mechanical worlds inside of them and rub my fingers over their gears and hands, and if they had eyes i would have seized those too i only loved them in the daytime, though their rhythm was too much at night, it would intrude on my nonsense world and demand order, which wasn't ever any fun for my dreams i know others, whose nighttime clocks reminded them of the horror of the Telltale Heart which is strange, because i know someone, someone very dear, and very sick, whose heart ticks and does not beat whose hands and eyes and everything are dying, dying, but her heart died long ago, so now it ticks, ticks on and on, ceaselessly, reliant as a clock i love clocks because they tick because they beat, and make me think of hearts that do not fail, even when all else does, or is going to, and manage to be right at least twice a day even when they're already broken.

0

Jan 3, 2012

Jan 3, 2012 at 6:58 PM UTC

ellie-stelter

pocketwatch

no one could ever understand why i loved clocks so much i would hold them to my ears and listen endlessly to their tickings i would imagine strange mechanical worlds inside of them and rub my fingers over their gears and hands, and if they had eyes i would have seized those too i only loved them in the daytime, though their rhythm was too much at night, it would intrude on my nonsense world and demand order, which wasn't ever any fun for my dreams i know others, whose nighttime clocks reminded them of the horror of the Telltale Heart which is strange, because i know someone, someone very dear, and very sick, whose heart ticks and does not beat whose hands and eyes and everything are dying, dying, but her heart died long ago, so now it ticks, ticks on and on, ceaselessly, reliant as a clock i love clocks because they tick because they beat, and make me think of hearts that do not fail, even when all else does, or is going to, and manage to be right at least twice a day even when they're already broken.

25

I think you're dead. You haven't replied to my letters, my calls, my emails, my texts, my body language, my thoughts, my wishes, the almost-silent tickings of my heart as it beats closer and closer to where you are. I didn't want to write this poem, because I didn't think people would believe me. I thought I should make it a book, or a story, or a newspaper article. Man Leaves Woman With No Reason, Probably Dead. We met on park benches, and under bridges. In abandoned train stations and church gardens named after poets. We never went out to dinner, or back to each others apartments. We were too much that combination of whimsy, fear and patience. I don't know where you live, or who your friends are. We are ghosts meeting together always passing through each other never touching. I always knew you would leave. I didn't know how, but I thought I would. I imagined fights, or the slow dying, our affection like the tired kidneys of a person who could no longer filter all the conflicting elements out of themselves. I imagined reason. You only gave me mystery. Before you left, you said you had to go do something. You left before I could ask what. You ran away. The sound of your feet against the pavement like one-handed clapping, like a tree falling in the woods with nobody to hear it. Without your return you made me into nobody, and turned us into a fantasy, into a poem. That no one will believe.

0

May 2, 2010

May 2, 2010 at 1:08 PM UTC

sr-devaste

Are you Dead?

I think you're dead. You haven't replied to my letters, my calls, my emails, my texts, my body language, my thoughts, my wishes, the almost-silent tickings of my heart as it beats closer and closer to where you are. I didn't want to write this poem, because I didn't think people would believe me. I thought I should make it a book, or a story, or a newspaper article. Man Leaves Woman With No Reason, Probably Dead. We met on park benches, and under bridges. In abandoned train stations and church gardens named after poets. We never went out to dinner, or back to each others apartments. We were too much that combination of whimsy, fear and patience. I don't know where you live, or who your friends are. We are ghosts meeting together always passing through each other never touching. I always knew you would leave. I didn't know how, but I thought I would. I imagined fights, or the slow dying, our affection like the tired kidneys of a person who could no longer filter all the conflicting elements out of themselves. I imagined reason. You only gave me mystery. Before you left, you said you had to go do something. You left before I could ask what. You ran away. The sound of your feet against the pavement like one-handed clapping, like a tree falling in the woods with nobody to hear it. Without your return you made me into nobody, and turned us into a fantasy, into a poem. That no one will believe.

30

Phantom tickings of hours laid awake staring at white blank wall , You see u am not here, I have been gone for what seems like forever I don't know who Iam anymore You have injected into me flowing through my veins like lead I am weighed down Heavy heart clinging on to old memories like a child holding a mothers hand in a bussling city sidewalk I knew I'd loose myself without your guidance Weighed down in bed I've realized how big my bed is how much youve consumed every inch of me Raw and scratched inside out you've severed my vocal cords I can't even objectify to your injustice Youve crawled out And for some ******* reason I still sleep with your sweaters hoping that they'll start to smell like you I smoke your brand of cigarettes hoping that you'll call before I OD I love you to the point where I hate you

0

Mar 4, 2014

Mar 4, 2014 at 10:54 PM UTC

A

Phantom ticking

Phantom tickings of hours laid awake staring at white blank wall , You see u am not here, I have been gone for what seems like forever I don't know who Iam anymore You have injected into me flowing through my veins like lead I am weighed down Heavy heart clinging on to old memories like a child holding a mothers hand in a bussling city sidewalk I knew I'd loose myself without your guidance Weighed down in bed I've realized how big my bed is how much youve consumed every inch of me Raw and scratched inside out you've severed my vocal cords I can't even objectify to your injustice Youve crawled out And for some ******* reason I still sleep with your sweaters hoping that they'll start to smell like you I smoke your brand of cigarettes hoping that you'll call before I OD I love you to the point where I hate you

18

beauty is the mind, the subtle tickings and whirrs, that make up thoughts.

0

Aug 18, 2013

Aug 18, 2013 at 1:36 PM UTC

234234

?

beauty is the mind, the subtle tickings and whirrs, that make up thoughts.

4

Time fades away The wind blows the sand Into forever As the clock turns it’s hand I stand alone in the silence The tickings gone dim It’s my quest for survival And my chances are slim I’ll take the odds If it’s all the same And live for each moment While the moments remain

0

Feb 1, 2023

Feb 1, 2023 at 9:20 PM UTC

jason-paul-klenetsky

Hands Of Time

Time fades away The wind blows the sand Into forever As the clock turns it’s hand I stand alone in the silence The tickings gone dim It’s my quest for survival And my chances are slim I’ll take the odds If it’s all the same And live for each moment While the moments remain

12