Clock River

Inky black hands point guns at my heart and 

It obliges, beating, chasing the flow of the river

In deluge, calling out in despair to the clammy

Midnight sky that settles down in a thick cloud

Of burnt flakes of eggplant skin, depositing its

Grimy, pungent smell into my nares, sending

Ripples of warning and shock and adrenaline

Right back to my brick-coloured heart, which 

Silently crumbles as the vibrations at its core

Beat against its walls, thumping, thrashing:

The inky black hands are coming!

And their fingertips like leaking taps drip

Ink, tap-tap, tap-tap, tick-tock, tick-tock,

They write words along the banks of the river–

A river carrying prey, carrying bodies of men

Who thought their beards were too richly

Strung with pearls to be the quarry of lifeless

Iced-coffee tumbling, rumbling across the valley;

The valley across which I run, the valley across

Which inky hands let their footprints carve words:

Words that sway with the rhythm of my heart’s

Beating captives, captives breaking out of brick:

tap-tap, hu-rry, hast-en, tar-dy, thump-thump,

Tick-tock.