Clocks.

We are turned by the
keys stuck in our backs that move
the cogs that move the world.
Swirling cogs, like clockwork,
steadfast with character.
A glowing sun of hearts coalesced
in pools of sweat, of perspiring the inspired.
Eyes the size of distant moons,
compasses to dreams
chugging engines; steam.
Matriarch: forest guides for our purist guise.
Awaiting the bloom, the ebb and flow
of time.
To ravish the old weathered ravines,
where countless men lay awake.
In dreams, caught up in clouds,
where no voice, let alone hers,
can reach.
Nevermind, the twinkle of eyes,
everglade diamonds,
coalesce, in time,
into dreams.

dance.

Tiny specks, sparks in synchrony.
On beats and off beats.
They flicker rhythmically together,
they flicker rhythmically apart.
Eclectic.
Blankets of white yellow filament glitter.
Sprinkled on each side.
Transporting to its twin.
Of cities saturated,
pregnant with light.

White noise stamps its angry feet.
And I know that if I strain I can just make out the dance of the fireflies and their own collective breath and breathing and living.
Inhale exhale.
Unhidden secrets for boat lovers and land dwellers.
Wax and wane.
Swell and burst.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight.
Loops,
guarded by nightwatch.

The perks of.

Blurry eyes, not from the sleep.
Dreaming of monologues and rhetoric.
Coagulating into the deep.
Imprints of words overlapping, paralleled on retinas.
It's cathartic.
Other shoes.
And a coffee filter that drips life into your favourite mug.
Observing the colours of sound.
And all with a 'forged in your own name' feel about it.

We think in riddles.
Our thoughts are the ends,
figured out.

Giants.

Carving carnivorous colour.
I'll start with that.
Just an observer, but there's added fervour. Fever even.
I wondered where they kept all the big clocks,
if not inside.
Top hats off. Canes stationed.
Monacles on. We're indoors, so come on.
Attach a touch of the nonsensical, I presupposed, I supposed.
Small, little footsteps.
Smattering on the outside of your consciousness.
We're just ghosts in pensieves. A cheeky neighbour peeking fences.
We're just giants in pensieves.

reopening accounts.

Part I
Old songs playing in my ears.
Sparks sparking old souls, and old flames.
Did all the time, like sand, slip through and fill glass bottom.
Antiquated emotion, mixed with new. A timelapsed fashion.
Time locked time machines.
Taking your hand, your words.
"Oh nostalgia...", old friend.
With stagnant sad notes and lines.
Windows to another time, another place.
Stuck in squares, nothing spare.
And you're singing songs about ghost girls again.
Those old pearls, old friends dancing, again.

Part II
Ghost girls dancing across the page, engaged.
These flames, the lick and they curl.
Conversations. They are. They were.
Of boys and bears. Of silver medals and spares.
The boy, head down, a song in his chest.
A lovely bellow.
Naked necklines.
Heave, ho.
To and fro. Letting go but that was easy.
Expected.

Part III
Created swatches, without unconcealed latches.
Eyelashes; heavy.
Strobes of time, feel that kick, bounce off-heart.
and
a
girl.

prgrssn/rgrssn

the human condition:
an unravelling mess waiting.
lately ive been a dreamer.
plans to take the moon.
and settle it in my back pocket.
runaway as fast as you can.
i appear dim to let you in,
i appear lost so i can be found,
i am the shutter you close before you sleep,
i am the pools, staring across the room.

thoughts the weight of stars.

its a time delay
im a time traveller
i walk your thoughts
unlocking doors
months later
to understand
the cogs
they spin
and
whirl
midair
to study the time
capsule of
us.