Mixed Time

by Nattie O'Sheggzy

The hours are dragging their feet and he is badly kneading time

A piece of pizza sprucened and spiked up with an ounce of coca

On a concrete of flour meant for pleasure pacing and thyme

Afired in the furnace of murmurs in a lazy afternoon going mocha

He hazards a swig on gooey porch seated in the there and then

Time becomes the ugly frog leaping on the back of reflexions

When the clock on the wall cracks to a deafening slice of ten

Between the glass and face grow the haints in creepy complexions

He cannot shoulder the baggages of the hours or his flaming chillum

Now tempos have made time a pigment of his Imaginations

With the soft heartaches and the uninterruptible sift of his vallum.

A figment in the fixated firmament at the crest of reincarnation

Nothing is sweeter than the pared bones on Father Time's tongue

Nothing eats up the seconds like the fuzz of air in the limp lungs.