making sense - communication

 if i had a time machine

i would glimpse at the unknown

forward into what comes after what is beautiful

10 years from now to the date 

on this very space and cry out

a jerk reflection of my contrary surprise

that not even the stale air has taken token note of it's duty to be recycled and given way to the new.

If, I had a time machine

for a second time, having learnt in strides

I would leapfrog to my childhood

venture forth with ample enthusiasm,

eager to correct what's defected and possibly save the world!

Failing that, possibly immediately too to adjust, accommodate and what else? 

Ah pray tell, to live freely looking up and outwards, caged deliberately

certain of my prize encased in silly pink lensed pride.

IF I HAD A TIME MACHINE

FOR A FINAL TIME, I WOULD PONDER

PROBLE, HESITATE AND MEDITATE

LOSING THE PLOT, DIVORCE THE DISCOURSE IN MY HEAD

THE ARCHITECT OF MY MIND WANTS ME DEAD

SLEEP ON THE ISSUE AND VIRTUE OF THIS CHANCED CONNONDRUM

AN OCEAN TO OBSERVE IN THIS REALM OF LIVING HISTORY NOW UNLOCKED

CONFRONT THE OUTCOME OF MY SHORTCOMINGS, THE CLOSED CALLS TOO

SLAP MY BAD KNEE, SUCK IN THE SWEETER AIR AND TURN THE HANDLE

FIRST TO THE END OF ALL THINGS SO AS TO CONFIRM

ALL THAT STARTS RUNS ITS LENGTH AND SO IMMEDIATELY BOLT

TO THE VERY START, JOIN AND BEHOLD THE MAKING OF THE STARS

My conscious is my time machine: bless

it clocks memories and projections unrivalled

fantasy and quirks a plenty both awake

aware and underneath, not bad for angel dust

once one pulls the pin. 

_________________________________________________________________________________

if my hands were a lighthouse,

a beacon of hope to those adrift

in transit on flow and yet - 

out of pace/ out of line/ out of time

desynched off the mainframe, therefore,

an anomaly oh malady

pray tell me doctor 

what be wrong with me

my eyes (are the wrong) wear the wrong lenses

my ears are so hairy ol' folk swear it is the stuff of legends

sticks for limps, I fear it be the pirate life for me!

Should be wind not take me a sneeze surely might,

soon to be bald out of fright

my skin is sore, my ego is shot, all hope is lost and drown at sea

mine mine mine mine mine mine mine

anxious, my head is too tall

my back is crooked, it rolls sideways and refuses to spring up

my face is rusty, lumps and bumps at crossroads: do mind the potholes

my internal organs be cogs and gears out for service

no amount of shiny oil or tender care or dreamy rest

can repair this open chest

if my hands were a lighthouse I must confess

it could not be any good

of any help for those meant to see

for this holes I exchanged for eyes are the prize those obsessed contemplate in order to connect.