Do you remember the strike?
The one time you sent your hands flying
The shape of your paw
Hand
Moulding the pad of fat on my cheeks
Into the surface of a potato chip
A carpet of blue

Where no tomato fluid goes
A bursting of vessels
Ear music
Not so much music, as noise
Not so much noise
As the ringing of a telephone
I pick up (of course)

Hello, I say
Do you feel me?
One minute, wasn’t I vertical
When did my inclination change?
I must be the spoke of some wheel
Spinning back to the same strange sadness
Over
and over
and over and over

Suspended into space time
Like a planet of
No known constitution
Is that all there is to poetry?
The reminiscence of
a childhood trauma.
Of evil.

Every time the shadow beckons
I put forward my limb, limp, pathetic
Toss you the blade
Bend my neck back wards
(or maybe forwards)
I shed no tears
“No”, I whisper
“You cut”