Our souls breach at once to sunder the time,
and we darklings sense awkward pauses split out,
of fractured stints on souls not stricken wet
yet, but dry and warm, not dank like fissures.
So who are we now with wholes and parts ripped,
jerked in position, left to synchronize
with ourselves? And how do we synchronize?
While fractured and mashed, with no lee from time,
to shelter our approach of cracked selves ripped —
and half selves poured into cups, and drained out
before all is exposed by the fissure
of liquid, a dotard; lost, old, and wet.
Yes, wet. Slick and foolish and drowned in wet,
breathing in it, needing to synchronize,
or to come and occur beside fissures
that are dripping like fingers against time,
against walls of textured innards, all out
by the beads of senses, opened and ripped.
Should it not be opened or known and ripped,
or ripe for senses trickling in, still wet,
still moist, brazen — still here, about and out?
Refuse this attempt to de-synchronize.
I am here. Open to you and to time,
Unwilling to leave for the next fissure.
The next division of things — a fissure,
this time of all split things and all parts ripped,
and all things taken out of you and time,
out of reasons that aren’t reasons but wet,
small moments of flawed touches synchronized.
I am here, unwilling to be left out —
of your stilted song and riven dance out —
of me and my things and my soul’s fissure.
Once before, we moaned as we synchronized,
but now those sounds are dead, taken and ripped
out of lips and sweet mouths — no longer wet,
and waiting for that was a different time.
Ah! It was left out as we were left ripped
out of our fissures. Breached along our wet
tongues that synchronized beside split, dank time.