A poem by OTTO J.KIENITZ

house

(intro)mental – kids these days [press play]

the werld ticks when you listen
if you listen
if you can consciously choose whether or not you tune in

even the words
tune in
give a certain ownership to the tuner
some command over the action

the reaction to a ticking tangible
lying tangent in attraction
a tractatus of malleable time

a thousand tiny hammers rhyme
forging stirrups between a clockface and your diaphragm

a pocket of that which exists out of time but in space
that you can probe in the ‘that-which-is-not-time’ between ticks
that which keeps us alive in the void between noise and mechanic being

i sit in silence and hear the ticks in my head
the whistles of the world
mis-strewn air
soldered air
air which vibrates from the earthshattering manipulations of the physical

all of our atoms quiver
we quiver and shake
we quiver and shake and hum
we quiver and shake and hum and accelerate
we quiver and shake and hum and accelerate and kineticize

the world trembles and we wait for the ‘that-which-is-not-a-tick’ that we chase through the ravines between
gyri and sulci grooved into shivering sponge

we shiver and shake
we shiver and shake and pontificate upon the stillness between ticks
the respite between ticks that we so despise
that dreadful tick that preys upon my mind in rhythm
oh how i hate the rhythm
i cannot escape the presence of time and it rips my insides apart
inside my insides is ticking timber
wooden shards writhing in ———– writhing in ———–

{reverberations}

have you heard!?

the apotheosis of mankind has arrived and been delivered in the form of a sonic tick!?

have you heard!?

the apotheosis of mankind is present in an anti-room full of pseudo-people and a trashcan full of crumpled ledger lines and coltrane!?

the apotheosis of mankind is a synonym for [WHAT THE FUCK]!?

{reverberations}

audible saturation from the crystal depths of saturn where satan holds a metronome to the back of the head of a garden gnome in who-knows-where suburbia

and the neighbors play in plastic bathtubs and inflatable microwaves on their starry lawns and play duck, duck, goose with a thimble-sized time-bomb

who can hold their head in a test tube long enough to escape the rhythm of the heavens, and the rug, and the hydrangea, and ‘that-which-is-not-a-tick’ — can you hear it tick!?

can you do whatever the opposite of listening is? can you…

?

my eye-ears are weeping
a collision of astronomic titans in a velvet-coated coffin
elegiac pornography
my brain has a digital cooking thermometer and i can hear it waiting to swallow
i think i can hear it breathing
i think i can hear ‘that-which-is-nothing’ in the background

if you listen

can you hear it ceasing
!?

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