Clocks don’t run,

It doesn’t matter what I do from this black matter,

I am impossibly drunk off of psycho soma seismic seman

Tic tic tics,

But the air river flowers through rocky ports.

And falls abundantly through,

Gear cogs,


Midnight chimes,

Frightened day ending,

Molested patented pending,

It’s a Process eh,

Tics tics tics,

To replace the pain.

Invisible rivers,

Are over me,

Time slows down when,

Clocks chime slower slower.

Then rebirth is new,

Dawn dazes and curves strain,

And the clock tic tic ticks,

Sliding down changing,

Ever same insane placement,

It’s a matter of time,

Or a matter of timing,

Or the right fact lying.