117

He could see the electric clock
On the wall, grey, batteries
Running down. It said Timex
On it and it was ten to three.
He was arranged in the bottom
Corner of the bathroom like a
Dropped puppet. His head angled
Up at the clock as if twisted
Or broken, his eyes black, fixed.
Something unnatural. His hair as
White as his skin plastered to
It. His body in a bad posture.
The clock drew something up
Out of him, as he watched it.
It was all reeling in his head
And he could not break out
Of it by will and he slided to
The floor as it was coming in
In the black like rushing colour.
The dark that colour is of.

He passed out. There was a man
At the bar with a feathered
Fedora. And a clock on the wall
The colour of whiskey and he
Came to and began to vomit.