tik-tock, the clock in the background
(why'd most poems begin with sounds, sighs or frowns)
no matter, it'll get better
or it'll clink-clunk straight to the gutter.
not ruby red, but jaded green
if only things were as it seemed
how many ticks, how many sounds
sixty-seven? nah, i've lost count.
puncture me, dear hyphen-
at least you're something i can discern
from the mish-mash of commas, full-stops,
jumble of half-told tales and flops.
gimme inspiration, something like plaith
nay, not the thrice-damned galbraith
always wanted to write about a rook
all the other pieces, i suppose, you took.
so here it ends
stapled incoherence bends
curse sticky-notes, save the stitch
knowledge is a cold-weathered bitch.
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