Tuesday, 8 October 2013


Maria sits, listening to my repeated effing.
I have no sense of touch, but inquisitiveness,
and cognisance of space so small it surely
could not be limited by measurement.

Everything is made of odourless smoke.
I turn to watch my right shoulder detach,
vapourise, then morph back into its place.
Perspective explains: an elbow bend reforming
into what it was before experiential foolery.

Abdomen tricks the eyes until they try to track
a movement highlighted by cigarette blue
and shaded by hooker’s green. Entrance to cave,
curling inside out; no beginning or end; only middle.

These are the circumstances as I pace this prison,
constantly checking the time because I immediately
forget. Working hard until Maria leaves.
Then a door frame keeps me from falling as I hunch
to weep because I am desperate with confusion.

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