On the clock

Walking anti-clockwise, black coffee passing my lips, one hand in pocket sleeves undecidedly rolled down. What choices have I made to be here, in this mood. Lips cracked, blistered heel. The pain. Yes, I am alive, pain, yes alive, pain. I think it’s infected, good, that’s a macro, a shortcut, a cheat to let me know, I’m alive. Not perverse – good and bad are both equally rich. Pleasure & pain both good and bad. Moderation and wanting. Health and sickness all helpful for the grander points of being. Narratives collide like vomit and toilet bowl. Surprise at the accuracy of backward, missended design. No faults, just surprise. Liquid, change and a failure. Schematic of my heart, blue prints. As eyes have colour, as hearts do beat. The swollen illness precedes, proceeds and prevails. Always wanting: pleasure, pain, sickness and health. I’ll wash my face, but the sick mask sticks. Dabbing the sides. Hopeless, faithful, lost and tarnished. Sick inside and out. Tarnished shoes covered. Ill from head to foot. Blemish of pain, this silence, disconnect, withdrawal. You will get from me only shrugs and a white flat flag. Hard pressed for more, let me shake my head and tell you the economics of my love. Breeze on my ripples, rakish and ruined. Patches appear, moths contort, ragged I feel, raging an blown.

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