It is Now Six O'clock

a change of heart for the windless chime.

how soon a charade becomes a bookmark

how soon a trench becomes a palace.

a dull landscape for the dullest eye

lets assume for one moment

the saintly cries of the childless Cock

tells us it's nearing for six o'clock;

 

feint smells of oil on the village whore

as drips from her mouth the sailors snot.

with sperm too busy to form an orderly queue

how quick a frogmarch becomes a stuttering retreat.

guns at the ready -but watch your back!-

a summer knife speaks in his winter frock

tells us it's close now to six o'clock;

 

between spasm and a painless limp

falls a shadow

between alignment and suggestive mind

falls despair

between suggestion and denial

falls the word

between innocence and guilt

falls the sword;

 

sun-dried beneath all who sprout sequence

are we to tolerate the intolerant?

or bereave all who bereave?

a sectioned embryonic myth

is neither smaller nor bigger than sliced orange pith.

let us waltz with the cuckoo on catholic rock

it is time -it is time!-

it is now six o'clock;