On Performing

perform for me

don’t look away now,

clenched fist is for me

sharp nail to skin –

cry infront of these people and i’ll

never perform with you again

sand blows into my eye

sad little particles with

no particular reason,

unknown balloon lies

flat in my laundry

it's only fate after the fact,

to be a pimple:

inconvenient and peckish.

funny word: peckish,

the image of birdies sliding around

covered in hydrochloric acid,

knock- knocking for some food please

knocking — a threat

shaking my bones as the doorknob rattles

with mystery, and its unknown voices

the corridor is drunk tonight i can tell

i stay unmoving, lest i should trip

and find myself in the library

drinking in as much tearwater as i drink coffee,

something candid in the air

of an underground room full of dead-

-lines, and stresslines,

it is thick like the beads on my wrist

stabbing cold like its history,

lips fall off in the corners, dried

and out of date, they

taste good on nothing,

all that’s left is the crunch,

crunching touch of gender

and the muscular musk must

be delicious like a contradiction,

sandwiched between the

disparities

of killers and mothers,

of telepaths and consent,

of plane wings and ‘day candles,

cousin enough, but fargone.