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The Horologist

Time
Soaks in my skin, sticks to my lips,
Gets tangled in my hair
As I unknowingly crusade to reconstruct
All the broken clocks whom have only just forgotten
What it simply means to be.

I'm an horologist
Falling for your ticking melody
My heart beat coinciding
To your rhythm of rhyming, poetic reciting
The pulse set deep in your hands
I tremble, awkwardly- attempting to
Show affections that I'm not even sure are deeper than our fingertips
But feels like they're oceans

Oh "Sweetheart"
Every moment passing us by
I'm hoping for more than a basic fix-and-run;
Binding springs, pallets and pinions,
Setting fulcrums and wheels in proper places
Adjusting the pendulum to sway to our music
With no bittersweet chime of my masterpiece renovated

Swinging away into careless embraces.

But nonetheless,
I'm an horologist
My thoughts and feelings are to a cadence.
But your timber, as you whisper
"Goodnight" and kiss my cheek
I smile as I fall asleep.

Hands quiver, soot stained smudges within my lines
I'll wind your springs with winding keys
Then commend your working bells
As a heart once hopeful, discolored by grease
Regrets all the shivers your voice wound up in me
As I'm watching you leave
Just like all other ventures
All other undefined things.

But time,
Soaks in my skin -
I taste it on my tongue
It runs through our veins

So

For tonight and however many more there may be
I'll unravel my ribbons, confess my addictions, and breath in your flavor
Because whether we toll together or resign ourselves to something conceivably "better"
This time in my skin,
In the air
As we dance
Is ours for the taking,
No need to concern ourselves about
Bending
Or breaking.

We're horologists
Time soaks in our skin.

The vines twisting up and around my feet, the cold shutters off and I am standing still.

Cleaning Conclusions

A dusky gloom arises
     just under light blue smiles of softness;
     small breaks, holes in the exterior.
One side, looking in - a reflection of past and ever presence dulling pain,
     vivid
     deafening.
It weighs on the chest,
     smothers the mind,
     slaughters any joy that attempts to grow within it.
It isn't "step back" nor stay away -
Tumble forward, dive right in,
      sit close and soothe the ruffled scars exposed,
      skimming the surface.
Eventually sink deeper to bruises and blood -
      expose and clean,
      cleanse and purify.
Prick, sting, que torment and uncertainty.
You'll soon know happiness again.

Coming more inside
      My own bones,
The Gemini effect is fading.
  Seeking solitude, seeking you -
     Swelling towards the sun.

Smaller Victories [Edited]

Through the window - I am wondering of the weather
Head is floating towards the ceiling, neck is stiff, eyes are tired.
What triggered this lethargy for life tonight?
Slow onset of stinging negativity coursing through veins
Whispering all insecurities that hide within a rotting heart.
Demeaning questions, harsh accusations, sarcastic jabs.
Cuts me down, grinds my soul, beats the life from my limbs.
I am weary of these events. I'm fearful of their climax.
Somewhere, softly, a light flickers and ignites -
I sit still, extract fear - "That is enough. Stop."
It echoes through the hollow caverns of my body
Voices quiet and apologies are uttered.
Cruelty, harshness, disgust and regret leave through the window.
My body has battled and won, it slumps, exhausted.
But it's quieter.
It's bearable.
I survive another day.

Define an Old Myth

I am soft, sturdy, never leaving, always giving, forever pleasing.
I am never ending flour, always eat, come again, "we'll miss you 'til then"
I am pillows and blankets, chocolates and sweaters -
Only used on occasion, but used and used again.
Always reliable, never mystery or fire, just plain jane simple
Enticing when needed, but sickening when filled.
I am never ending pockets.
I am old entertainment.
I am the poster on the wall.

Give Up On Me

Round, exact, a slight contour that is inexpressibly happy
An upward lift - a background of white, jagged then pink.
Strings tied, suffocating skin p u l l e d until ripped and bleeding
Erupting from the bottom, bottoms up, we're falling /backwards/.
Wrapping {tightly} in transparent taffeta, silk draping to the floor.

Appearing wild, fascinating, intricate, pleasing - Taste then s t a y again. 

Staying is sickness, staying is less, staying is monotone and rude. 

Staying is comfort, staying is pleasant, staying is work. 

Soft, warm, s t r e chted canvas over strange scaffoldings

A foundation laced with oxytocin, seesaws, and giving in. 

Not Needing Saviors

I've dreamed of you writing me letters.

Talking nonsense, babbling logics, making the world seem right. 

But in crisp morning aires, 

Thinking back through time - 

I remember that you long to be needed. 

And you are. 

They cling to you for comfort, 

Feel calmer in your presence. 

Dance prettily and happily through a life quite under spoken. 

Then in moments of my breaking 

When the dark seeps through the cracks and consumes, 

I know, I understand, I remember 

You long to be needed, and you are - 

But not by me. 

Not in pain, not in guilt, not in unreliable, overwhelming panic.

Who better to save me than myself? 

And I breathe. 

Craig Arnold, "Bird Understander"

"Of many reasons I love you here is one

the way you write me from the gate at the airport
so I can tell you everything will be alright

so you can tell me there is a bird
trapped in the terminal all the people
ignoring it because they do not know
what do with it except to leave it alone
until it scares itself to death

it makes you terribly terribly sad

You wish you could take the bird outside
and set it free or (failing that)
call a bird-understander
to come help the bird

All you can do is notice the bird
and feel for the bird and write
to tell me how language feels
impossibly useless

but you are wrong

You are a bird-understander
better than I could ever be
who make so many noises
and call them song

These are your own words
your way of noticing
and saying plainly
of not turning away
from hurt

you have offered them
to me I am only
giving them back

if only I could show you
how very useless
they are not."

- Craig Arnold, "Bird Understander"

Separating

I gave it a name, a face, a body to walk around and interact with.
It infected it's host like a shadow, veiling the reality of what it once was,
Consuming the rest until it becomes complete and unrecognizable.
I never noticed.
Neither did it.

Keeping it close, I fell in love -
Allowed it to bruise and bend my soul subtly,
Without hesitation,
Without knowing.
I called it lover, friend, comfort, crutch.
Double vision, two different images -
The outside,
The inside.
One blooming, the other fading.

I could not be without it,
Even after nights of painful whiplash and uncertainty.
This was my love and devotion in question,
But really
It was my addiction to something so familiar,
Made only more so by this apparition of reality,
This physical warmth to attach myself to.
Their was a thirst on my tongue,
A hunger in my belly for it when I was away,
The desire for it's hands to wrap around my waist and breathe in my scent.
Things did not feel correct in it's absence.
I felt sick and insecure.
My lover, friend, familiar...

But in the end, I attained the high ground
I found I can mold it with my hands,
Hide it under covers,
Make it tangibly perpendicular to tame and leave at home.
But there is nothing quite so fearful as looking at a pair of eyes that encompass all conflict,
all misery,
all anger and hate,
Yet still be comfortable and familiar -
Ever living, keep on breathing,
Dance and tango, shoot then wait.

I'm separating, splitting off and letting go.
Not control but befriend.

Drop.
Wave.
High.
Crest.
Drop.
Roll.
Drown.
Out.

Relient War

I'm dependent.
Two tone color, hard shell, symmetrical compound.
With it, there is hate.
Without it, there is death.
Point it out and watch the splintered sour screeching sounds tear my body apart.
Trampled and disfigured, sorrow overflown.
Asphyxiated from a lack of care.
Crept back in, I'm cornered, drowning in darkness -
It will always linger, attached to my soul.

I'm dependent.
Broken, in need of constant maintenance.
How tiring - an utterly exhausting nuisance.
Imagine perpetual weight on heart, consistent shattering, regular glueing back together.
Play, stop, rewind, repeat.
My monster, my demon.
Invariably hungry.
Uninterrupted battles within.
Eventually to succumb.
White flags raised high. 

I'm dependent. 

Surrender is inevitable. 

It sits there. Lifeless. Pretending to understand. Cut it to pieces. Bleed it dry, watch it shrivel. I HATE it | this | much. I will loathe it until it ceases to breathe. It slips through my fingers like the smoke escaping my lips. Watch it charcoal and fade. Wish it away. Drop bombs or throw grenades. I SHALL kill it in my sleepless evenings. Strangle it as it smiles. Choosing this over that and I'm livid. It's burning in my head. Grant it one last vice as I dowse it in gasoline and see it disappear in flames. This is what it gets for playing "teeter totter." Up and down, b a c k and forth. Feel worthless - I do. Feel used and thrown away. Tie a -- rope -- around it's neck, kick the chair and twitch. Take a knife to it's jugular and laugh as it falls. I'm feeling angry, uncontrollable, { inconsolable }, rash. Toppling into spikes or streams, I seek to end the headaches of light. Bury it alive. Hold it under. Kick it till it sighs.
I'm doing just fine. How are you?

Medicament for Spoilage

Red stained skin smacking bright sighted monsters shredding open greedily closed cases. Staring - quiet carcass rotting, sluffing meat off bone, disfigured, unrecognizable yet loved, still cherished. Heavy heartaches filling, spilling over spouts - tumbling rocks, boulders, glass shard sand. Roll out into the docks, show your pretty dancing quick stepping feet to see if catching whales might display your bravery better. The better half of two options - Once winning now lost. Now gnashing silver sparkled*, too fancy for fur trimmed, collar wearing, dopey-eyed mutt lovers win the awards.     Not losers but masters of catastrophic, conniption fits. So annoying but acute.
White knuckled fists thrust up into the air, swa yin g in saturated, | crisp | with ice wind - call out, calling for proposed change in perspective as if control is bereft of them. Begging for anything but. There is silence and the smell of fungi festered meat and bone. Clutching tightly, blood drenched ball gowns stitched together with fondness and scheduled out accents. Screaming, slamming snap brakes, toppling over, around, off cliffs into underworlds, mythological places, nirvana, h o l y land. Sirens and [sirens]. Cover your \ears/. Red syrup soaked hair - there is the stench. Nauseating, uncanny warmth thick within lines----, choking fogginess blue - so clustered I can hear it chirping// as if suddenly tangible mass made intelligent by will alone. Once singing now dying, rotting at all angles, poke holes where thinness shows but * click * those heels while battling opposition, cures exist all the while, achieve impossibility - they appear.
Bloody, rotting, carcass held close to caged, heated machines that supposedly control chemicals. Drop it. Let it go. Keeps staining {pretty cotton summer} dresses, twisting organs causing sickness colored skin & dead eyes.
Slip through fingers, s l o w tearing skin - screeching yellow, aching, calling dark angel mercy kissed pain. Wail to will but necessity beckons. You'll feel better some morning.