Two clocks; one clock synchronized, updated every three seconds to perfection, tailored for universal sense of time; one clock hand-made, adjusted at first notice of a wrong tick, a misguided punctuality; the two clocks run on different time zones, only made in sync when the analog seems off, suddenly disengaged with the universal clock, as it's often
placed at the face, pointed at the eyes that lie, feeding the soul that quenches the need for sugary substance, fizzled by design, contained by the walls that separate the clocks, hidden by a curtain of promise; it promises zest, a kick of tang, an identity of standard and the extraction of euphoria, plastered into a graphic that latches to the blinking eye; the curtain lifted from the top, a sizzle of hope drowned by the overflowing suds, bubbled up from the bottom up, trickled back down and
bathed in blood; the internal wounds patched up with duct tape, covering the scars and never moving far to heal the marks, only paint to hide the pain that the curtain crumbles from, revealing the dents from the bent infrastructure constructed by
the face of the clock; the second the minute bruises expose hour years of anemic treatment, the endless gauze that doesn't pause the bleeding, the ineptitude that ensues from the lack of navigation from the nose to the prostate, the state of the body to crumble on itself and held only by a string, until a pair of scissors snip the cord and the system falls apart, crushing vital pieces and returned not for repairs, at first for profit, only to be met with reprisal; the eventual smashing of the analog clock and dissembling of the hands, sent into flames set by the pit, the ground in which
the bottom of the can meets, greeted with burns that don't heal, scars that won't heal, medicines that won't heal but will instead control, medicines that create a box for the damaged parts, walls thickened with the bond of the host, a relationship cherished by most, a divorce as a sign of betrayal, paid for with sanity, the removal of the paint, the exposure of erosion hidden underneath, discarded and replaced by a new host, a cycle
regulated with a manual that shows how certain parts are to be used, how one part has one purpose, how using the part any other way will affect the infrastructure, a mechanism used solely for the builder's purpose, for the ability to open up a can and drink its contents, how the shell protects the precious liquids, shields it of the viruses that will infect, where you control how stable it stays at the palm of your hand, like the steering wheel of your car, the pedals and windows, the way you feed your pet and go through the motions of your day with automated ticks in your brain, how you were trained to behave in the realm of the product, like a knob that turns to set the time on your clock, the
comfort quickly snatched away because the universal clock doesn't stop; it beeps when it's time to be awake, and screams at you when you are late; rewinding the analog clock doesn't refund time; turning the clock back doesn't bring back the dead; it can't erase the bruises and scars embedded in the conscious; the damage left by negligence overheated, solutions wasted by complacency,
the can dropped, kicked, and tossed; it can be wrapped to look presentable, but once the can is opened, it spits at the eyes of the blinking blind that turned behind the rubble it created.