[Tranc{E]nd} (seattlesque) wrote,
[Tranc{E]nd}
seattlesque

TURNAROUND TIME (poem)

TURNAROUND TIME

Sweeping the dreamscape
were radian clocks --
ticking and talking to me
as I watched them
clean every man's mind.

They didn't clear mine.

It appears I was flawed!
A sick voodoo god
who misunderstood pain,
and time and again
pulled pins off grenades.

Mistakes had been made.

Taking E before I
tended ordered events...
rules persistently bent
caused memories to melt
of those who meant well.

There is asphalt in hell.

Here tides play me music -
it's sometimes confusing.
I still pick up seashells
to answer her calls...
selling oceans to ears.

If you listen, you'll hear.




Wandering piece, which has a little of everything and intentionally tries to escape my usual sing-song structure. The idea of "Radian Clocks" is that radians are measured counterclockwise, thus suggesting these clocks are spinning backwards (an idea I actually have advocated in time measured in "daily cycles"). For this reason, they might be seen as going backwards in time, and able to erase memories. This ties in to one interpretation of the title as "time turned around".

The idea of a mixed up Voodoo god who's pulling pins is kind of funny. It suggests he was running around pulling pins only to find that those were grenades, and ended up hurting himself and others in an attempt to cure pain. Or maybe he was trying to inflict pain, but was confused about how Voodoo dolls work, and what they are--thus ended up hurting himself. It's left somewhat ambiguous, but I like the former...fitting with the good intentions mentioned later on.

Third verse has an allusion to the drug ecstasy, which some people call "e". The mainline focus is the most important one, though--doing things out of sequence (E before I), which is why the narrator is finding himself in sync with the backwards clocks and not having the comfortable fate of forgetting, awarded to those who follow the rules. The idea of the condition of living in this world when you've seen these things as being hellish is shown by the idea that there *is* asphalt in hell (and that good intentions aren't necessary as pavement).

The ending has the concept of this hell as being alone and listening to static, able to draw out of it whatever one wants but not getting any actual communication. There's a funny telemarketing spin on "she sells sea shells by the sea shore". On this note, (I have long been able to hear the entirety of any song I happen to think of when I listen to white noise...I notice this the most on planes). The other interpretation of the poem would be the concept that perhaps it's time to take a different tactic than the one that landed the speaker on a desert island in this state.
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