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  • Writer's pictureKyx


dictators ticking everywhere:

hanging on bedside tables

poised, controlled débonnaires

ensuring the flow of time is stable

but I’m unstable; numbers’

silhouettes blurring into ink;

dissolving while I quietly slumber

all semblance of sense down an overgrown sink

foetus skin cells dying before they’ve grown:

dandruff plummets from my head.

but fingernails on my curled toes

extend endlessly. they’re DEAD.

I don’t strain against the regime

of standardised, globalised time

rather, I skate through its fever dream:

minutes are not Arabic but made of slime

the hands of the clocks stretch to catch me;

but they only grasp air and smoke

after all, catching a mind untethered to reality

sounds like the punchline of a bad joke

making attempts to follow the pendulum

concentrating on newton’s cradle

straining to hear a cuckoo’s gentle hum

oh sorry, I forgot to write the fourth line

I promise my craft is not so sloppy;

I haven’t forgotten the structure or rhymes

just temporally incoherent, atrophied


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