Southhead Poem by Jason Bouthillier

She said, 'You must have an awful lot of time on your hands'
Then would I not have what is most valuable on my hands?
And then I want to flick the ticking seconds from my fingers

And stick them to her dripping face.
But why just a taste?
I take time from my hands and hurl hours to waiting embrace.

She catches my days, months, and years
She catches the whims, the loss, the fears
That steer clear of 'too near'

A time where hurt makes me scream at God
from a truck on a dirt road
lost and driving in the dark for fun,

talking to people who aren't really there
and hearing replies one by one.
All this time on my hands, and mysteries thicken.

Lies prevail and kill a feeling.
Skins meet and pulses quicken,
and time's still a'tickin'!

The truth always flows from an honest mouth,
but it's the lies that stumble the tongue
that rung the bell in my head of South.