a clock three hours
twenty two minutes fast
is ticking someone else’s time
scotch tape and staples
have ceased being toys.
outside this rainy window
the pulse of traffic
rolls on.
the glass falls over :
ink pens spill across
old newspapers,
their caps slightly chewed -
spinning blurs on the grimy white
where words once lived
appear and disappear.
falling.
dirty fingernails
and tangled hair
in motion blur,
becoming
slowly buried by
calendar pages
gliding softly to the floor
(neatly planned days
so easily swept
into the trash.)
outside this rainy window
the howl of wind and sea :
you feel your body
thrashing
again and again
on the rocks.
i enjoyed this piece, it brings to mind a short feeling of strife, or impromptu reactions to terrible events. it has an aura of hopelessness that is somewhat appealing.
The hopelessness is part of what I was trying to convey here, however mostly I was going for a sense of detatchment. Truth be told, its almost an account of an actual event, (though tweaked for artsiness). I’m epileptic, typcically kept in check by medication, but when a seizure is coming I start to feel strangely detatched, like I can feel it brewing. And the pace of the world slows and it feels like I’m watching things from outside myself, though not really. This is my cue to go pop a pill, but unfortunately I am stuck at the office, the traffic is thick, I can’t go anywhere, the clock is stuck …and I’ve stopped fidgetting with the pens and pencils and slowly begin to fall …like timelapse video. Then at some point the brain disconnects completely, ala the final stanza. Like changing the channel.