My new clock has two hands,
one of which plucks moments
from the face of eternity
whilst the other flicks them
instantaneously
into the mouth of oblivion.

Oblivion chews each moment
to a fictional pulp, spits it out
and grades it according to consistency.

Those that stick together are committed
to memory, a form of purgatory in which
history repeats itself until time runs out,
stands still, or gets ahead of itself,
whichever proves to be the least plausible.

Those in conflict are medicated,
given temporal behaviour therapy
and egested as cosmetic dust
which, when sprinkled on the face
of eternity, stimulates a pile
of possibilities in moments.

The unclassified are free
to do time where space allows.

As eternity's stock goes down
demand increases,
the hands move faster
and an arms race ensues,
causing time to fly
in the face of adversity.

The manual handles the minutiae
of overclocking but little else,
which sets my alarm
bells ringing; I suspect
I am being wound up.

Not before time, I consult
the clock itself, which tells me:
"There is no time like the present."
I question whether I can count
on such indistinct tips; a speaking clock
calls for a second opinion.

An occasional friend who fills time
as an orthodontic horologist,
confirms that oblivion has no teeth,
merely a yawning hole for burying
waste produced by poetic ephemera.

03/15/2015

Posted on 03/15/2015
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