by Steven Clifford
“Ticks” and “Tocks” gently stream against black nothingness.
Fluxing shades evolve with ever complexity.
Faces
deform into
bazar figures.
(Tick
tock)
“Nothing is there,” he assures me, his arms around me.
(Tick
tock)
“Jimmy!”
The opaque window shudders as a truck rumbles through conception.
(Tick tock) Mutters speak over whispers beneath silent screams (Tick
tocks) and his silhouette holds me (Tick tocks)
like a gypsy told me at a sculpting site (Tick tocks)
still in development. (Tick tocks)
Walls swell nearer, (Tick tocks)
the boundaries warp, lucidness melts, (Tick tocks) and
elusions gel with the shadowy room. (Tick tocks)
Psyche hive (Tick tocks) a swarming hiss
that (Tick tocks) recoils at my touch. (Tick tocks)
I have (Tick tocks) delved too deep, organically.
Is the father clock just faulty? (Tick tocks)
I remember darkness (Tick tocks)
is just like (Tick
tocks) shutting my (t.i.c.k..s…) eyes.
[( ) I think anyway…]
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