A Rock Clock’s Talk
6AM
Streets now lined with the Zen off broken shoulders
Outlined by ashtrays, frozen with a warning blizzard
Of ashes from the mouth’s lonesome tongue which molders
Paper from the butts of husband-esque throat tending wizards
Walks capped facets of mistreated and trampled heads
Walks kickstands, welded to the wanderers of answers
Walks contemplators of gold mines, that bitch of earth’s wounds
Walks colors blended with the exception of blues or reds
Or greens or purples or oranges or grays
Shall tomorrow come tomorrow, may we dance tonight?
Swollen cattle mostly illuminate today’s feasts and feats
While the skinny cattle symbolize their ignorance in strife
The metal of our watches come only from great metal in sheets
Not from our tile floor or its ancestors or its cousins
Not from the horn players afar of lands in other worlds
Not from miners, but minors, of misplaced bones and teeth
Not from misanthropic doers but from the philanthropic dozens
That are steady in hands, but in their shoulders and ears, they sway
Grand street salesmen on street corners bat lashes at ladies
And the same happens back to them in their honest favor
While across the street bums and hobos taunt their wisdom of hades
Only for themselves to grimly savor
The taste of a boorish nightmare of awe and wonderment
The taste of silence in its most agreeing and contradicting smell
The taste of dirt, dust of the roads that are trampled justly
The taste of bitter winds, sweet rains, and sour sentiments
Pouring from the mouths of the dead who decay
6PM The priests have fathered me and nuns nurtured me But east of Eden is a road I’ve always longed to travel Alone, I might add, but I can’t, its sight tortures me It’s so tempting to drive over the asphalt and gravel To hear my tires screech as I peel out over the blacktop To hear my engine roar like the guttural thrusts of lions To hear my keys dangle, slapping against the dashboard To hear my breaks squeal, as I make my last stop Before my death overshadows my life Gorillas are intimidating until you place them by a river They cower at its flow and I laugh at their stupidity Their hair sticks straight up, but their fear makes them shiver And the look in their eyes causes a new pity To be grown with the rain of my own tears of guilt To be cultivated as a crop is, before the time of harvest To be overseen by my creator and for him to laugh in scorn To be scraped from my consciousness and be withheld as filth And the gorilla keeps his evil plan secret with much might As Eve approaches, the end creeps up behind her It wields a knife that glistens in the setting sun’s glow It plans to kill her slowly directly after it surprises her And even the beginning alerts it on its new personal low It shouldn’t care; it should continue its plan It shouldn’t worry, it is nothing but nature It shouldn’t seek; it should already see It shouldn’t fret; it lacks its own hands To caress a woman or to wring them in strife
6PM The priests have fathered me and nuns nurtured me But east of Eden is a road I’ve always longed to travel Alone, I might add, but I can’t, its sight tortures me It’s so tempting to drive over the asphalt and gravel To hear my tires screech as I peel out over the blacktop To hear my engine roar like the guttural thrusts of lions To hear my keys dangle, slapping against the dashboard To hear my breaks squeal, as I make my last stop Before my death overshadows my life Gorillas are intimidating until you place them by a river They cower at its flow and I laugh at their stupidity Their hair sticks straight up, but their fear makes them shiver And the look in their eyes causes a new pity To be grown with the rain of my own tears of guilt To be cultivated as a crop is, before the time of harvest To be overseen by my creator and for him to laugh in scorn To be scraped from my consciousness and be withheld as filth And the gorilla keeps his evil plan secret with much might As Eve approaches, the end creeps up behind her It wields a knife that glistens in the setting sun’s glow It plans to kill her slowly directly after it surprises her And even the beginning alerts it on its new personal low It shouldn’t care; it should continue its plan It shouldn’t worry, it is nothing but nature It shouldn’t seek; it should already see It shouldn’t fret; it lacks its own hands To caress a woman or to wring them in strife
Guide that inspired this poem: