• Vol. 01
  • Chapter 08
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Mind Over Matter

You want to dissect with hands, steel reinforced creaks
-they look like industrial action-
and I am a happy orange, segmented easy into action and reaction.
Rocking gently on my skin I worry for the separation from the pith,
With flesh removed I must lie flat
capitulate to the extraction of zest and verve.
But this is my motive, as you want to see it, all scattershot like.

I was a gentle space, once,
the empire in me couldn’t help but add an elephant or two
nor could it refuse the treacherous line out, ring ringing
face-tapped at the other end.

All this Rorschach, drawing blanks, makes me think of old bones and books-
the ones straight out of the heart of a savage
as if a heart could have bones. It must
have bones. Or thin, pithy filaments at least. Ignore that small walnut
nesting in my skull, focus on the pumping infidel. Let it be pulled apart
for all its beat poetry and confessions. Swarthy fibres knitted together
like the black white black blots swimming like protests on plaquads.
Go on strike then, give me the sack. Taproot. It’s a jungle in there-