clock, work

a good clean supply of supplies comes coursing our way

through wires and pipes, a peaceful lifeline tangle

and we live according to the friendly cracks in our curtains

and the noises from our watches, our nightwatches;

like starfish when the call comes, on a few of our legs,

we rise up to view our world and our strange interpretations

of heaven and hell, night and day mixed up like a hairball,

scattering the medical kit, one day like the repeater buttress

we will overview this from another atmosphere

and another culture will begin like clockwork.

foods fall from the roof of the world, unasked for by words,

and with obscene ease we recline stuffed like bears into bags,

then when we, powered up, exit from the grey door to the white page,

black against our bright red opposable and useless thumbs,

we do so with the seas of white froth parted like lovers before us,

we scorn this earthless earth with our buzzing stinking machines,

sliding like blubber through ice gullets, we sleep in cracks in the frozen skin

thumb whorls like a maze i left lean on the left wall

and the world watches through electronic eyes as i do my time

like a sensible and dutiful dog, the luckiest there is.