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The Fat Clock

John Whitworth

The fat clock ticks and ticks and ticks and tells

Me stuff I didn’t want to know I knew.

Across a million billion windowsills

The stellar dust is whispering of you.

A Balkan website that I can’t access

Texts messages to the Uranian rings.

Since Tuesday last American Express

Are threatening unimaginable things.

A changeling with an enormous head,

A forky tail and huge, prehensile claws,

Is swinging at the bottom of my bed

And doesn’t seem to want to stay indoors.

Call me.  I’m waiting for your call.  What’s done

Is done.  There’s nothing here for anyone.


From 14 No 11 (Feb 2011)

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