CLOCKED


Crow of dawn, you
piercing trumpet. Brainless
how you slave
to morning's
iron rule.
You cocka
doodledoo godless
inanimate. Morning, 5 a.m.
The tangy warmth
of last night’s fuck still
lingers in
layers: quilts,
sheets, blankets:
my dreams loaded
with bad chemistry.
My mind’s not right.
Echo there, I know I know
Who said it first?
I wonder, does he want
to be reimbursed?
Creakfloor-early
drag my body heavy
murkmind
out of bed when your electric
cry explodes.
What hell did
you clunk out of,
devils lighting your
numbers?
Who invented you?
Probably some jobless fucker hopping
to your tune. At a.m. 3
I woke hard
and watched your minutes
collect like buzzards
at the heap
of some purpling corpse.
Heard dogs fucking behind
the house, sweat
greasing my half
sleep. That dampfur stink.
Not like my
man’s familiar warm peak
when I tumble him
across wet fields,
roll him
into Latin, lost lang
uages, utterances
of grief
and hunger
twining and coming.
But that was last
night and I knew
you were gearing up for
your savage rouse
5! 5! 5! it is 5!: up you work-
hag, you drugged poet.
Finally
silence
at the palmslam,
not sly but a brutal swat.
I loathe you
because you crow
that this newborn day
will live and die
between my first
to last yawn.