but what do I care for ?

Dear Sir/Madam Hour, Minute, Second

Time, indeed, is a cold piece of clockwork, a human made Master. Tirelessly it

makes the skin we wear a little looser until it is just hanging off the bone.

Our sense of being, falling down like Eve’s apple out of Adam’s mouth.

The earth pushes us away from our heaven

The confusion of the face becomes regular, accepted.

Take life’s shears and cut away disappointment, it does not suit you,
even in old age.

Underneath, Dear Sir/Madam, where the heart pumps and you bleed, can you see it?

That incessant ticking, the little machine that created you, asking if it has been
“a doting father”
I find myself searching and searching but that compass of time

is far off like a mars colonization by SpaceX and the

Absence light of space is closer. They are hollow drum patterns

Reeling in the years.

To pass the hours, minutes, seconds a tired couple

Smoking cigarettes and more cigarettes

Having sex that is sexless and dry.

Strong limbs turned limp, too much life-horror-dissatisfaction to digest and not enough circulation.

What can I do to make the patterns disguise themselves and stop the headaches.

Eat my own head? A carnivorous infinity, eyes rolled

Back in the stomach, acid churning, churning

To throw it all back to The Heavens?

A non existent form of delight, not

To be pursued- wash the smell of rot from me, dear clouds above,

But not the scent from the

Decaying flower bed I sleep on, their sweetness! Oh, how this

Makes me wonder how perhaps death could be pleasant.