The Clock is Dead, and The Nose is Limp

Favored to oneself, over the open corpse of content corsets.

Strings plucked and pulled, flattened by the hatred beat of fleeting music.

Count, for the time is what to be once over the rim of you cap,

followed by to many of the once began for sure.

Oh, not only for the sure-less, sour sounding, foot falls,

forget not what the words have talked unspoken vowels.

Only can once to many have been, can be, to be, always, and gracious.

Not only, but for the time, overt passing of your shy high tunes,

decaying to your eyes for what seems like to marrow in your bones.

Walking, walking, in his sighed eyes, lips of blossomed remorse, a blush of rune.

Talk, talking; Making into the rhythm of whatever you never said.

Never, oh the humility, humanity of something that was left to be, left, gone away.

Taunted ships of breath on your face, coughing smoke of your lungs wake;

Infatuated with an obsession of likeness, heavy lidded, and busted eyelashes.

Nor to be what fidgeting finger can have, tap, tap, tapping away at the very soul that you diastase, Destiny in your right mind, wrong in the way to take and be taken, give, only to give more. Leaving yourself only a little stream of a heart, broken, consumes to be a shell.

Crack me open and pour out the remains, listen to my sizzling voice, a fever of life.

The box to which you banned me to, grouser cube of cycling astro-nymphus.

Touch nor to be wreckage of the after noon, brown eyed for the coming breeze of voicelessness.

Vicious, love-hate combat of a spoon and a fork, spotted with the marks of a tiger.

Only to linger but a few moments longer, what have you to beg? What have you to offer in your place of nothingness, of complete foreseen lustful love, for hate?

Nor have you the time, I see, for time is what I was mean to be, tucked into the bed of a stove made for burning. Burning, oh, sweet blissful fire of my soul, locked in your chamber.

What do you mean? Mean what you do and though to the darkness you shall be hold, danced in the dreams of a summed cold. Caught in you throat you the voice that seeks to be sought, heard for only my mouth to lay upon you cords. Clocking to the amethyst ways of the beaten path, crystallized in the eyes of north, and yonder youth-less.

Cackling are the strings of gasps, tuning to your eyes, bleeding me, bleeding you.

Sonic boning of my skin, coating the ghost of, yet to grouser beaches.

Yawning, yawning, open wide and ripe to taken to sandy grains; Not for the life, nor the fight, lingering to be, and be to linger.