It has come up again and again
In my list of strange phobias and fears
That I am terrified
Terrified
Of clockwork
There is this Steampunk notion
Of dirigibles in the sky
And Rube Goldberg mechanisms
That run living servants
That drives me to screaming delirium
It always brings to mind images for me
That doctors are liars
It is all special effects
We have no blood or beating hearts
We are filled with shining metal gears
We tick and whir and wind
As I thought about this
It occurred to me that perhaps
What I really fear is perfection
This idea that maybe God
Really is a watchmaker
In a very literal sense
And we are merely bits
Of tiny, working, perfection
My childhood was held together with
Twine and foolish optimism
And now the more I look around
I see that we try to sterilize the world
We bleach it white and perfect
We make it so
That nothing can besmirch what we believe in
That hurts me
Give me a dirty room
An unmade bed
Give me a wrinkled shirt
Show me illegible hand writing
And let me believe
That we are flawed
Let me know that the darkness
Has not been cleansed with antiseptic hand gel
I can’t stand the thought that my beautiful shades
Of grey would be turned
To something so ugly
As false white
If God is a watchmaker
If we are nothing but gears
Tell me that some of us run
A couple of seconds too quickly
Some of us are missing parts
And they cannot be replaced
With the newest factory model