Chris McKelway

Tic-Toc-Choc


ISSUE 62 | DOUBLES | MAR 2016

 

to be re[a]d invidious in the dark

two lanes of ice run upstairs on either side of grabbing your jaws desperate. sun shade-in windows like a coloring book blot out all wishing to a bottom of the ocean scene where fish swim less-a-dream and mute, alike two-four-six-ten amount to qualities and modes are declarations of love– droplet islands jeweling a tropical some thing numbering the stars in post-rapture sweat as a bottle of water is on a sidewalk poured frozen– a heart at rest– the second hand caught between fifty-nine and sixty. this is love, hate, despair and joy underneath a moment that will never rise. this is glove, loaf, spate, reefer and ploy in a market make worthless souls out of bartered bitch identities, pitcher off your necklace of coinage with a rock on pavement splinter gleaming the copper, nickel, gold to a glitter/alloy to dust mystic allergen an eye-watering snuff, to wax poem a candle on metal.

from far away this clink sound. pit pattering up the milky pasteurized way in slippers off the ends of your feet– there's only one direction– it's non-volition. there's only one god– they're a tear. foreverripping seam fossils a drop rain lit-twi between day and nigh-death an orange in the sky-unsure hunger hesitates your hand to take a section of it, to live.

 

out of doors

two loins of nice fun across on either side of desperate. sunning by a window shade like a bloated color joy of a dream so heavenly word up there, sweet salt smelling on a taffy type beach day, just glistening. sound perfection, an extra virgin oil would you like to. cold press that second in suspense to tic again each beat the iceberg tip of a thousand gears and locomotions. years thrusting. this is homophony. is good. this is skin brin leaf pleasure. in youth forever after with only a promise of light and lighter. stunts this verve in the pink sand, dripping out of cos we can. being together's not a matter of holding ad infinitum closer; love for us is the most natural gesture a sculp, clay, molding.

also, distant. from afar, from a sail, a fan, a way to open, to wave flying, a beautiful banner to without have. hear the hardest things: a buffeting wind grain, er liquid sun ray. and all the ground's an aether above which we inhale, mercury wings this god float in grace. if birds could love. at last being human!

 

under dirt

to re-pose two in a rose lined plot of garden; their earlier lives never lying apart. you put their beds together but bones never touch. was it cruel to break the berry's rasp? to beakish-like scatter these seeds so madly enamored? an english cure to make paper look antique: douse in black tea steeped water, dowser the edge to burn asymmetric an ash, then poplar these flowers above a radiator current of heat. i would have wanted the same except to let the edges burning curl inward around each other and our smoke-selves to go up, away. gave me the impression of traveling out of eye sight so gradually consumed itself the fucking flame. when the lantern paper light is flickering, then out, it is night.

rind and all, orange was eaten. happy to have been afraid, to have failed and frayed a miserable rhyme into delight. thanks be to the gods. toc.

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