the Clock
It clots the room with its tutting tongue, my flesh underneath; sectioned up like butchers meat. Each second is pronounced; lines drown upon my brow and grease fevered cheeks, the veins gathering speed where my fists grip the looseness of words that gutter-fit from night and sense. The cut of day, beamed as sharp as knives; draws flecks of dust, years of skin as if by moving into this continuous sound, I have shed my earthly form. My bones - athritic pestled rounds for the pendulums kiss - grind away my fingerprints; sands pinched in the spiralled descent of man and I am no more now than a slow breath perpetuated by what comes before, by what will after - suspended, precise; there - always knowing, always dismissing, forgiving not
in that which we fear;
time.
Graham Sherwood
Sun 30th Dec 2012 15:27
This was far more penetrable for me Marianne. There are some really good words here. good to see that you are still in great form. I'm not sure whether this is a fine finish to 2012 or a fantastic start to 2013. nonetheless, brilliant stuff. Happy New Year!