On Time

I sound the horn and declare war on time.

This marching arrow will march no more

with a bullet in its knee and another in its jaw.

I make a noose from fate’s thread to hang the Norns.

Slice and sever Father Time with his own rusty scythe.

Let’s torpedo Apollo’s chariot out of the heavens, perhaps

a bomb will put a stop to Ra’s journey, and the sun

will no longer turn its course and nobody will die.

Love will become eternal, suffering obsolete, perfection

reduced to a habit of the common man.

Time has no such prize. They’ll win only silence

and dust of dust of dust – so fight! Bleed!

Wade through guts of gears, cogs and sand

and stick a mortal knife through the dial.