My body steeps in this hot sarcophagus,
Coated in fake butter topping.

I watch trollops quaffing hoppy-scotch,
Flipping wristwatches for moves to jump rope two-and-two.

Like when I was 10, and I saw this ***** white trash can of a man,
Fly out of a grocery store with a 40oz like he was Peter Pan.

But I knew deep down, in my swashbuckling soul of souls,
That Peter Pan got Wendy by being a gentleman.

So this fever, that has my mobile phone not shaking in my pocket,
I keep staring at every five seconds for you to call.

Is just another moment in my life to cherish, because if we should be married, And I want to talk. I'll just need to walk down the hall.

“Time is but the stream I go a-fishing in.”

                                              -Thoreau

Som­e six or so cheap watches set in a row
Ten-dollar Timex models with shabby straps
Cast-offs and hand-me-downs – and so one asks:
Why are there watches on a refectory table?

The abbey’s clocks are the moon and the sun
And the cycle of seasons each in turn
The changing leaves and liturgies in time
With the Great Dance of stars in their appointed spheres

But even so:

Those six or so cheap watches set in a row

Are

For outside appointments - and now we know!

I was drunk last night.
I made a sandwich at one in the morning
I hated the feeling of alcohol
Burning in my stomach,
But I was drunk last night,
I was alone.
I remembered how
I stood on the edge of the cliff,
I had no fear that time,
Because if I'd died, I wouldn't care.
The way my arm was torn and split,
So I could prove that I still feel,
I wasn't drunk then.
But I was drunk last night.
I wrote poetry about wristwatches
And watched music videos
Until I passed out in this bed.
I don't know why I did it.
But I feel sick today.

the blinds can't quite block out people like you'd hoped they would
the moon still shines when you close your eyes
the mercury still seeps in between closed eyelids
reduced to veins that run hollow
you know they were once filled with electricity
but you can't remember the sting
wristwatches slowing time as they go to sleep
drowsy hands still can't cover the bruise
pupils dilate to conform to the darkness
but you can still see them
throat contracts and it's just not right
to assume it's because of the lack of oxygen
you're choking on your own breath
and your thoughts still roam to them
don't worry
even if your reasons are selfish, how can they not be?
you're a lover after all

With great power comes the shirking of great responsibilities
I am the super zero
so **** justice and right and wrong
the track is stuck on a loop
and it sounds like insanity feels on fingertips
in our hedonistic heathenism we tore the palace walls down
only to make room for something far more beautiful
she taught me that
behind closed eyelids we all look the same
and the floor rising up to meet us
feels more like flying than a crippling fall
our time here is flying out the window by the second
like paper debris in a car going sixty with the windows down in the summer
my source of most frustration stemming from my own warped principles
let them all go
because we’ve all got life left to live and as nice as dreams are
the concrete of the pavement outside is always real
always there
consistently mundane
so make an adventure out of macaroni paintings
and smash all of the clocks and wristwatches
let’s act as stupid as we did in middle school
lets burn our caution at the stake
and say ***** to your paranoid thoughts
the paint has to dry before it can chip away
charity the most prototypical example of how self-serving
and alms aren’t always mutually exclusive
so keep on driving outraged fist into the metaphoric faces of all of your excuses
and keep on burning at your own fiery temperature
you owe us to try and shape this world into a painting of pure beauty
and **** all of the other irrelevances
she taught me that

There is a way that love works in my heart
That can’t be counted on wristwatches held by dead old white men
Burying each other with fleeting gestures of hello and goodbye.

There is a way love works in my heart that is more honest than a
Rainbow after the soft way teardrops fall from God on so imperfect a
Creation of clay and stone that one could only call it perfect for its
Oddities of dying men, futile in their searches to live forever.

There is a way that a woman leaves a room that spoils me more than
The dead ever could. It’s being so alone in a whitewashed room, staring
At a corner, wondering who will love the sinner with his dunce cap and
*****, torn shoes?

There is a way that I look at a woman and feel the tears of God manifest
In my heart. It is sexless and noiseless, but holds a mirror to my face and says
This is who you love more than you. Not the vanity of rivers, but the tear that
Comes when no one is watching me watch her. I will now fall into her and drown,
My final performing act.

There is a way a bird sings so carefully in the rhythm of time, that doesn’t give a lick
About me or how beautiful I think he sings.  He sings simply because
There is a voice inside him and a swelling to sing, as nature warrants. I, too, sing,
But for others to hear. How shameful am I?
Maybe he sings for a lover? I don’t know.
Maybe we both sing for a lover to hear?
Lyrics were the inventions of lovers who
Realized words were not enough.

There is a way she walks down a flight of stairs that make
Her calf muscles tighten and loosen like all the days have done.
Her yellow dress falls around her upper thighs
And I wonder how many other strange, lonely souls see
Her this way and dream of salvation in the fat pink lip I would
Bite a little if she challenged me with her eyes and we
Kissed.  

There is a way I close my eyes at night and wonder if I will
Awake one more time. Or will I be eaten by the blackness of space,
Forever one lone astronaut going nowhere and everywhere, but no longer
Confined to time. How will I get back to her and kiss her and tell her
I love you?

So much depends on manners, and when one dies, and manners
Don’t matter, so much depends on death.
How will I get back to you after death?

My home lies in a distant world
Unknown to me
My consciousness takes me there
In times of despair

Where my family is always laughing
And the cook’s always cooking
The birds always singing
And the books always, well, booking

My room lies in a separate part of the house
Hidden away from sight and sound
My bed, the storehouse of my dreams
My palace of solitude

It’s there where I think
It’s there where I dream
It’s there where I write
There where I eat ice cream

But then they came
And placed clocks inside my room
I asked what they were for
“To tell you the time, birdbrain.”

Why would anyone in their right minds
Want to know the time?
I know when I’m hungry
That’s the time I’m hungry
I know when I’m sleepy
That’s the time I’m sleepy

What do I need clocks for?
So I threw the clock out

But they came again
With a bigger clock this time
The kind which doesn’t fit in my window sill
So I gave up
And thought to myself,
“Well, I don’t need it. If it’s there,
Let it be.”

And so it was
The clock kept ticking
Tick tock tick tock
Tick tock tick tock
Tick tock tick tock
Tick tock tick ******* tock

Until the noise of the hand
Was written in my brain
In every song I sung
Every thought I thunk
I couldn’t make the noise go away

It was taking over my life
Telling me what we do
When to eat and when to sleep
And when to do the other stuff that I do

So I broke the clock
And thought it was over
But the world wouldn’t give up
They just couldn’t leave me alone
They came one after another
And put clocks in my room

Every shape, every size
Wristwatches, wall clocks
They even got me
A grandfather’s clock
Until every space inside my fortress of solitude
Was filled with tiny, ticking machines
And every cell in my mind
Became just like theirs

Now I’m one of them
And wear a watch wherever I go
I see the time before going out
I see the time when I’ve to get home

I know what I’ve become
I’m scared of what’s next
I’m scared of the time
I’ll have to put clocks
In the room of a little boy
Who’ll never be the same again.

these are the days we live by
bemoaned by youth
with ether coated fingers
scoffed at by geriatrics as the
wind their wristwatches
and we in the middle boomers post and pre...
wring the blood from each hour...
looking back, to hard memory
looking forward to retired
ecstasy
we live by these days,
waltzing through.....not
but plodding mostly
some days in ourstep
a skip, a jump, a hop...
each generation eyeing off
the others
and finding lack and want
when needing to step back
step up and take a gentle overview...
and taking up some slack
so the line... from begining
to end don't droop somewhere in the middle
recreating primodial soup
big bang or no.... generation
a to xy and z  all  gone back
to history.....
these are the days to turn it
around.
these are the days, compassion still can be found
these are the days, my friend
these are the days...
close...so close.. to the (b)end

Some walk on their hands by some
cruel gesture of idealistic Faith
As long as the mind is numb, the Soul is all alone.
Feel the chill of a November evening
Neglecting the Life-giving day.
Act as if each of these things can be
merely thrown away.
For all that come or choose or may.
As for the Individual, who try and try as he may
to swear that at the end of this
One Long Day
That they know to be home
They didn't know they were creating most
if not all, of Love, of Fear, and hope.
Dismay or reasons to hooray.
Terra-cotta attachments
"Let all Rise and Fall"
by the end of your most
manic, monkey-minded day
You wish to say Nay
To cast your flashy wristwatches off
the concrete roof, in ballot to eternity,
While our souls collide, aloof.
Limitless, understanding, Time.

ha ha! white priv? what about these black girls blasting more sensual song than a fat girl might in opera? i.e. blasting out the sensual, soul-fathomable sounds? white privilege? the **** is that? what about black priv? no black priv? really? so why these black girls singing double the standard, solo, of a choir of white girls? blah-ha-ha-ha!

not that i get to excuse myself
                                          that often,
but if i did, it would begin with
i'm beezee....
no, i'm not selling
      fake *fabergé eggs or rolex
wristwatches...
     **** me, i could do a whiskey
or a beer commercial,
   but then i'm no
  jean-claude van damme,
jenny and clarra will sort you out,
and yes, to me sweden = roxette
minus abba...
although i could be doing
all these things,
     orio orio oi oi!
      kil'oh a'f a bannana bunch,
two kil'ohs fo' a fiver!
              i could be doing that...
but then i can't stop laughing
writing this *******,
  not that it's fake,
   it the fact that it actually is,
   it was a magnetic approach
to the late existentialism
    accent of heidegger's dasein...
it has a place...
        no matter what the being
is about...
     at least it conceptualises
a sense of gravity, a grounding...
       a drag to the source effect...
beginning with kant's concept of 0,
namely 0 = negation...
    and heidegger's
         fetish for dasein avoiding
a worldview...
       what dasein is, will always be
newtonian,
       a worldview? alway in the hands
of the einstein correction...
       newton could never be a globalist
that einstein became...
   but look at it this way...
  the re-emergence of israel is *******
fascinating...
          2000 years of there-abouts
of the "idea" of a state having a clearly
stated dynamic of government and borders...
  ******* lazy leftist donning
   a keffiyah / shemagh /
niqab / whatever party-dress
                         at the laundrette...
              my country was sold
by the aristocrats to three factions,
the prussians, the russians and
  the austro-hungarians...
         it wasn't invaded, it was sold,
thrice dissected... thrice!
                that disney movie about
a ugandan femme chess champion?
          **** me, i dig short hair on a girl...
          war dogs? great movie,
best movie i've seen in years.
        the last king of scotland?
tell me you wouldn't want that
   cadbury flesh in your bed at some
random point in your night?
   well **** me, if i were hanging on flesh
hooks from my **** up,
    sure, i'd call a scandinavian ******
                     working in saudi arabia;
yep, tears go into a bucket denoted by (a),
   and male arguments / words go
  into a bucket denoted by (b)...
       the rest?
   well **** me, hopefully a good pop
song.

you are crossed out words and crumpled papers and
you are hands held tight through hallways and under desks

you are black coffee at the break of dawn and disney movie dates in the basement on saturday nights

you are rivers of glass and autumn leaves and mustard colored sneakers and flannels

you are soft music
when you want to lose yourself in lyrics
and drum your fingers to the beat

you are the greying sky after sunset
when the world starts to fall asleep and the moon becomes the brightest light in the darkest sky
you are the moon

you are sleepy smirks and silent laughter:
you are a puzzle I have yet to solve

you are silver wristwatches and sapphires

you are quiet conversations and bright constellations

you are the calm after the storm:
broken glass of different colors
pushed together to form something entirely new

caffeine highs and painted hues
crimson hearts
first I love yous

you were the hope I lost
and the hope I needed
and you were the hope I thought I never deserved to have

Bathing in surface tension,
streams of skin left flush in slumber.
Perhaps it’s like being a bird,
trading fragility for flight
and something to fly for

Saddening yet is the absence
that by pulse alone cannot be warranted
for what? By what bounds?
Fingernails and fabrics,
clothing and crossroads,
songs and ***,
that are so wonderful and so
well pieced together. Okay.

Swords and wristwatches -
how dissonant and foolish
- or as it convinces so.
Of which a passing kindness sows
what will reap a morose kind of harvest

Saddening yet again is the absence,
that is because it cannot be the lack that
is forbidden by design.
It is the sadness as taboo
as waiting for you to show up

rural ceremonial

open casket
his face was covered in a silk cloth
I removed it he looked grumpy
this was not the outcome he had wanted
I replaced the cloth
sat down thinking if it moved
it meant he was breathing a ghastly mistake
I concentrated hard, but I´m not Jesus
can not decide between life and death
my faith was not strong enough.
I looked at the mourners; they had the expressions
of deep sorrow
although some looked at their wristwatches
they had other things to do like taken the cows
in for milking at five o´clock.
Cattle wait for no one
the padre came he had gravy spots on his white robe
I thought here is a man in need of a housekeeper.
The padre nearsighted blessed everyone
we watched as the casket was lowered into the ground
an ocean of flowers
why was I here I didn´t know was asked to go
to make up the crowd of mourners.
I shook hands with many and murmured words
of comfort in times like this words are not needed.
Profoundly dismayed I drove home
wondering what life was for,
the dog was waiting it was hungry, and no walks today
a program on TV I want to see.

Flicked a ****, ashes against the breeze
ice isn’t worth all this trouble, doublechecking over my shoulder
waiting to hear the cops shout “Freeze!”

Sparks snuffed out on the ball of my heel,
fists plunged deep in coat pockets
stamping my feet, back to the wind, but I can barely feel
it’s getting darker, just a few more blocks
buttons like missing teeth that let blood seep from my lips
every opportunity to remind me there is, fingertips reach into my coat
taking wristwatches in their greedy grips, I can’t focus on one shadow before the next dips
they’re running circles around me, passing time for sport while my mind slips

Through a blindfold I find my way back, awake under fire casting irons on my floor
my coat, my bed, where I lay down sometimes is where I rest my head
until my hands find memories of the night before,
the coals may be stoking outside, embers enough to smoke a city
all the distractions and half the work done on every two-man job; I am sitting pretty
I search over, my scarf that hides my face, fingers tread the surfaces of wallets, watches, bracelets and lockets
as I feel for the cold spot, the felt bag sewn into a patch beneath my second skin, my coat’s contraband pockets
I can see the tail of my ghost, trailing on my breaths as I exhale
for they are gone, and I see my life before me leads as clearly as a blueprint
I can see that I have failed, the pale of my host, flailing on my death as I am frail
to be shot and escape with diamonds only to be robbed in my sleep, thus retiring my stint
in no grand fashion, quite adhering to belief, that I was only a petty thief.