This poem cannot
be a vertical ladder
of single lines building stanzas.
The words slither and slide weaving their uniform from bubble wrap. A gift to the reader in the safe shape of motionless warmth. A spiralling distraction disguised as a blanket which allows manipulation to intertwine, tangling up and becoming unrecognised. Smoothing out sharp angles to create kind curves, growing
silently into a smudged blur. Slipping
underneath
one another,
the page smothers the ink.
But letters link together in an unbroken hand
together they call
Write your poetry along my lined body in the darkest of colours
LetItStandOut.
Intelligent fingers belonging to the remaining open eyes get
lost
tracing the winding lines from the false start to the end. The poem continues in silence-
swallowing itself whole, trapped inside a handpicked language of lies. An author, a reader and a poem in denial.
But the smooth sheets of innocence OpenTheirArms
donating their blank space
like a property of land
with rules of freedom
over which voices stride,
listened to by the whitest of eyes.
Repetition glaring on a screen
Repetition standing on two tightly laced feet in the window
Repetition hanging over the windowsill
hanging in front of the building
it hangs from the ceiling
someone said it feels like 1984
someone else said almost
someone else said nearly
someone else said not quite
someone else said
- yet?
What someone didn’t say was that it is perverted and twisted
to tense your claws and scratch at the back of throats
pulling apart the finger and thumb and straining the wrists
stretching outwards to go inwards
into the deep glacier
whose teeth try to bite
but just melt and trickle
down
your
hand
as it persists towards the tonsils
a protective layer draped over a tangible voice
which hides
seeping further away,
and backing down.
