Round and round! The clock! The cogs!
Blessed be they who go in circles,
For they shalt be known as as Wheels!
Clockwork springing back and forth-
In the demure, demental head,
In the sogged up tubule of brainy stuff
In the cog that isn't part of the bloody clock
At all.

A head like a squarish room
Padded with a rubber tissue that
Bounces a chemical ball all tied up inside,
Churning over like the ocean tide,
Dreaming of a coat with no arms,
Sculpting and smashing and moulding and mashing
The thoughts all mangled around,
Twisted like the coil in that clock.
Tense.

Jelly balls with an in built camera
Recording endless spools of erratic light
To twist and reinvent elsewhere later on.
Photons thrown away in multi-hued formations
From the other body that is so perfect'
The other thing that looks the same and
Looks different and is not the same at all.
You.

-

The face is in the clock, a work of art.
A grand old wooden timekeeper, never fast or slow.
An even tick echoing gracefully in a silent place.
Exquisite tiny hands, clearly guiding the eye.
A delicate trace of ornaments complimenting the style.
The cute, shy look apologising the time.
All in all, a masterpiece of refined beauty.
Clockwork crafted by a genius creator.
The coil fine tuned to give perfect response.
Small wheels and unbelievably exact cogs
That think, think, think, precisely all the time.

-

It is a cog that lies outside.
A wheel serrated on edge to give a use.
But it has no use, alone, like that.
It's not quite right, there's a tooth or two missing
And the axle hole isn't quite centred.
But the unkept cog lies outside, staring up at the clock,
Almost wishing, if it could, to be a part of the perfection.
God is my friend, he cries, as is the bird and the butterfly.

The wall is there, staring at him, accusing
As it does. His watch is lost, broken too.
Time passes as it does, who can stop it?
God hates me, he screams, so he broke my watch.
He tore out the cogs and wrenched out the time.
Now I must exist outside time, with my heart bleeding
A new emotion into a shred of existence.
The square room is padded to keep the brain from Him.
He hates me, and I am Him. I hate myself.
Sanity?

-

Scream out, there's nobody home.
Clanging gong that signals a certain time.
Sing your resonant overtone, chime away.
Putrid clock. Evil hand that grips the soul.
The key, the hand that winds it, is gone.
The coil unwinding, relaxing. Black joy.
The clock is stopped.

-

Void of thought, a dying mind grasps nothing.
A space is there, a hole in the lump of soul.
A missing bit taken right out of the heart.

I have the key. I must wind up the clock.
I must turn the key over and over.
I must leave the key, but for just one more turn.

The coil snaps-