The Clock's Fractured Machinism Poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr

The clock’s fractured machinism
Sounded like the bones of
The populace
Latticed to the flummoxing
Wilderness of flagrant destitution.

I always listen to the
Clock’s wry machinism
At night
Its dissonant, enraged gale
Of furious susurration
Spoke to me, in the tone
Of an abandoned muse

The unfathomable symphony
Cannot be deciphered
With hands,
With tongues of carnal mesh,
Eyes of ruptured sockets and
Aqueducts -
Not even the subterfuge of a
Cajoling mockery could
Make the clock wince
And reveal itself,
Naked,
Gears in a mad clash
A battle of distorted
Function and triviality.

The clock’s fractured machinism
Never ceased for you,
For anyone
The gods could not act upon
The labyrinthine song of
The clock
The seraphs clipped their wings
To usurp a mundane rapture.

I disassembled the clock
And touched its rigid gears,
Arms like scoundrels
I felt their pangs creep
Into me, in a serpent’s maneuver
And I understood

That I
And the clock
Are one.