Poetry

Metronome

     They, the metronome
          ache with the threat of cold lust —
          move like a cracked mirror.
    They, the metronome
        with naked leg and split spine
        convulse like surging fluid.
    They, the metronome
        who breathe creosote air
        bite with iron, acid and tooth.
    They, the metronome
        born as ghosts,
        from the residue of rapture:
    a tick
and a kick,
    and the regular
        click of wheels on rails;
            a timeless tempo
                                    of twisted metal
                                                  into
                                                            tamed skull.
                                Trepanned
                                          until the ticking stops.
                                A muted march from
                                                    mother
                                                    to
                                          incinerator.
Each moment
weighed like a
fat egg.
Each moment
pulled down
the throat until
each moment
touches the next.
A wreck
that will not rest,
remains in a lucid dream,
animated
by the metronome's fingers.

A loss of blood somewhere.
A slow leak only heard at night.
Siphoned away to this quiet mirage.

John Darley