napo one: tick

I

I don't know the difference between foetus and embryo.
I don't understand birth
of form of children of fire
of this snow that smells of salt
                                             of what
 I cannot grasp. I am a creature only of tail,
 curved and long like  an adult back.

But I am too primitive for adult. I am
only a clock bundled in meat, raw,
who hasn't yet learned to tick.
A clock who dissolves when a mist or a star
bites its curving side
and tries to separate
one hand from another.

II

All ticks.
Wombs, blood, flowers.
Being a clock doesn't mean deafness--
it is the mute throb of a heart in a human
that the ticking is to me.
Life takes
the moments I need my ticking.
Replaces them with water in plastic cups
(made of barbarically melted jellyfish after they had cracked into grains of an hourglass),
with platefuls of placenta dough
(shaped into stars by little girls sitting in lotus positions in a circle in a universe and lifting their skirts to praise the taste of their food).
Clocks aren't the only tickers.
Clocks barely tick.
A watch only transfers from the wrist
from the core of its owner.
A tide only takes from the internal translucency
from the core of the jellyfish,
The falseness of clocks suits the declaration of love
not form not children not fire

Time is only rhythm, ticking is only
the tribal call to start beating and breathing
and dance.

III

God made everything to tick like him.
In various shapes hid one rhythm,
a muffled staccato,  and
God conductor of the orchestra
wore his suit in glory, the suit you see
galaxies, the eyes meteorites.
God crashes into your heart
and watches the devastation a clock can bring.
When they tell you god is a fake,
you kick into their ribs, hoping
the abyss between them is also a lie.
Then you lie on the floor
hearing it tick
and cursing that tick until
God has no other way but to be fake.
You wonder what kind of people
would pay to go for his concert.
None, ticks your tongue.

IV

i am lying in an empty bath
missing my mother
who is downstairs

the newborn lightbulb
is also hungry
and intensity eats me

like a hot stone
its narrow throat
intensely beautiful

intensely timeless
i am lying in an empty intenseness
time is downstairs

V

She asks
              do you love me
She means
                can you hear us ticking together
She knows
                there is a disorder that doesn't let this happen
Creator answers
                         how can one object love another

VI

the mother's time
isn't the child's time

just as the cloud's substance
isn't the rain's substance

VII

They are buying a ticket to a concert to celebrate the birth.

PSSSSS: This is very rough. Unedited. Fresh. With a tendency to grow weaker. Thing is, I'm now really tired and in need of an early night before tomorrow. Sleep helps creativity, so...
Let me know what you think.