Sta.sh
knees buckle and
ankles shift underneath
the weight of the world
and hips pop in and out
of control.
in a deep abyss
twinned by two large sponges
there is this device that goes
thud. thud-thud. thud.
in its odd shape
it pushes and pulls like
shorelines pull and push
electric waves.
(is this the future, perhaps?)
a structure of bone moulded
as protective fences and
skin pigmentation
create a treasure chest.
there are these dodgy long things
on either side.
long and slender arms fall
down beside lungs and kidneys
until they erupt into something called
the sick hands.
bended and crooked
(oh dear oh dear, there goes
another ligament)
falsely attempting to grasp air
but fail halfway through
the process.
then there are the legs,
with femurs and tibias
and switching patellas.
oh the joy
of gravity.
i am barefooted
and leaving pieces of myself behind
as i manage to
swing myself around
tight corners and
prudently jostle my elbows
through space.
brains are mushrooms.
my brains are mushrooms.
there are these things
called sick hands
attached to a body
that is not mine
and there are these things
named the sick knee
that freely enjoys
their stay.
and i angrily write disinfection
with slow exhaustion.
P.S. this is the naked truth. act one. scene two.
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