1/10 of a day

in the afternoon, you too
change gears and refuel.

but bad bad blood
badly transfused
mixed with your metaphor
makes a regret-driven engine
out of you, supposed fool:

the bad bag of blood
seats you in the back
and belts you in
begins to take you up
and make dull threats
toward the landing gear

if you start to stand up
it's "don't you fucking dare"
but there is a way to get away
whilst tied to a chair
but you have to give away
1/10 of a day

it's not bad once
but it adds up, it adds up:

2 tenths, a fifth,
measure the time away,
a heaping spoonful
in a place with no name
it all corroborates
til' you can't stay awake;

this is but one way.

it takes only a first grain
to make a beach of frivolous waste
squeezed by the world
into the pearl of shame

because you suffered lust for
the tongues of the clam;
how they closed, dark and wet
all around your head and neck

this is just a note that says:
when you lose time that time is dead