This Boy is More than Just Machine

Twelve points glare
with bewildered terror
Across a box-room
Packed up with jumble and memoir
And other clocks,
That come alive at
The strike of five
And watch with falsetto commentaries,
Tears along their faces
Black and white films, degraded
Base content
Quite animalistic - for a mechanic.

These cogs don't turn
Without a push
With a fire behind to drive
The possibility
Sends a shiver, like a wave
A tsunami of treason
Or some glorious mutiny,
Like the guilletine,
Vile inventions
with Vile intentions

There's that smell again,
Brown woods, oaks and mahoganies
Tin and iron,
That taste,
That dispicable taste
If these cogs don't fit,
And never again, does that face stream
Tick-tock, brother
Nor party without sight
Away from human prying eyes
And imbecilic ears
If his face should freeze
His numbers fade
We'll stand and stare, in twelve hour straits
This sodden mess,
These humble cogs
Will tell us the truth
At least twice a day