Your clock tells poor time.
Wound tighter than the knock-knuckled fingers
Crimping the cigarette at your thin, burned lips,
Gasping, as you pinch your own airway checking the time,
Your clock brings nothing.
An agent of shock and collapse,
Pressing and laughing,
Holding a carrot and digging its indecent heels through your side,
Your clock sings loathing.
Alarm. Yes, indeed, alarm.
You set your alarm for the next second,
So that when it flashes past and dies
Your clock mocks the fall of another trying failure,
Bullhorns your lost and loosing years in tiny increments
Calling attention only to that which is said and done and cast.
Your clock repeats, in useless blasts with twenty-twenty vision,
The particulars of what ought-to-have-been,
Telling the man in the coffin to get the fuck up.

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