A Clock Of Token Weight Poem by Nathan Coppedge

THE CLOCK OF TOKEN WEIGHT

This ‘Clock of Token Weight' is worth the world to me—

Stranger eyes have I than the brooks of beyond, inward-turned upon death's double-scribble: logic is a riddle, and if it applied!

The fountain would run—any fountain would run, to me, I remember the price, it is worth the world, it can make fountains run riddles around the world, a Clock of Token Weight

Indeed. Is irrationality worth a type of freedom?

The math of matters says death dies is the mortal soul, and gods sell themselves for dreams—both like a gargoyle caught on a riddle, fair games fair games!

The machine turns away, beckoning dreams, silver hour, amber nought, the potion counterbalancing the scheme—

Triple alchemy making truth unseem. Weather of words, the pattern seems au resolvé!

Fortunate Man! A sìecle of potential.

Ambergris has been holding his hand!

A cross of philosophical meritus is displayed with flashing eagles and suns bathed in jade—he's the devil's psychopomp, a queen of spades.

What evil upends his illustrious name?

Surely it could not be cheap to call on Easter and resolve the world, all while crying like a little girl!

The shape of things forgotten is to come!

Sinister portents for the Old Wheel!

This poet has learned to steal and makes it look like Santa Claus.

Can synthesis be fake?

If society performs well, does this mean there was an element of sophistication?

Are challenges supposed to be obsolete, or is structuralism ideal by nature?

What is the currency of greatness?

What is the figurization of history?

What forms are not complex deformations?

What is the school that teaches mediocrity and it's opposite?

How can we recover from our adopted logical conventions?

What is truly, merely just? And, what is truly completely right or good?

Aesthetics is a destroyer, and systems are a philosophical sickness…

Still, being understood, these things are worthwhile…

Each idea has a singular sense, past questioning…

A ‘mere tolerance' shaded with a square.

These standards may be unimpeachable to rationality.

These figures may be beyond sense.

A deliquerious dream—

Figures motioning!

The rebel call of monstrocities of distance—

I awaken in a cell…

The cell of my own mind…

Mediocrity it turns holds equal fruit…

What better to exaggerate than blank substance and the distances between minds…

For otherwise our puzzle is at a close, and stupid symbols are the flashy rose…

One may as well figure a semiotic square, and dazzle the distance unaware…

What secrets the gods must hold, so secret they are not yet old…

So young the art of thinking is—

It still dazzles and reminds us of bliss.

The stranger things are made of art….

Divine, yet modeled on the human heart…

Soundless problems and wordless deaths…

Giving spotless grace a gentle caress…

Words come near, but do not defy the fall—

The open, empty sounds of emotional war—

Placate the heart—

Without which the soul is not at war—

Such vast differences, noble griefs…

Given places to understand…

Run like bloody rivers through the land.

Broken tokens to disenchant.