A Blithesome Step Forward
stuck like a prick between a shoe and a trouser
in a blue ribbed Marks & Spencer sock,
if it were not that I am only eyes incapable of being taken off you,
and you are tibia fibula talus robotics;
if I were a human
and you were too
I would lovingly spit, and destroy you.
Aren’t you sick
of being trapped in that blue sock
like a baby?
Don’t you buckle instead to be naked
and scathingly licked by a tongue with no recourse to thinking
to make it stop?
Is that clonic seizure flex on purpose?
The veins might try
to eak out their metre
but that sock, frankly, is skin tight
and you protrude so livid and
How about this?
I’ve got a bunched up pair of keys at the ready and unless you convince me with solidly desperate humiliating passion, bannable under the new porn laws, that your mortice is so stable that a deity could be aborted in it and no one would kick up a fuss, I will stab them into you and hack you apart – below, from the deeply embarrassing neediness of your foot, and above, from the black dog of your calf, and I will henceforth cuddle the residual ligamentous stump of you into the heart-hand side of my bra.
the height of my insensitive impatience.
has no mouth to answer with
in any case
of course I am plagued
(who could not be?)
by terror —
that to force such a change on an ankle like that,
to render it lumpen
with no foot to,
with muscular purpose,
make me observe how,
for exercise purely,
it marches away so briskly,
(might it not?),
though turmoil persuades me violently otherwise,
make it look rather suddenly useless, drained of its animal blood?
I don’t buy that, obviously.
If worms, cut into pieces,
just get on with it with whatever’s left
and delight, even, who knows, in the breeze afforded their severed ends,
Plus, there is something to be said for refusing to relinquish
the torment of unprofitability.
I am more,
than arousingly a pair of peeled eyes and, with that,
daily I mourn in the riveted flesh for the items I know to be true:
the ankle dressed in blue
into my cheekbed
or grab it for fun in public
and chinese burn it over my knee.
By the laws
which govern this ankle,
which this ankle,
gagging to be king of everything,
I am caused
The screaming skin between the sock and the trouser’s hem,
minutely exposed when the ankle is shifting position, is a thing
I will die
having never discovered the taste of, and, worse yet,
there is no permissible context for my thumb
to slip inside the sock’s elastic
and rub round the imprint left by it.
If I were to rearrange my pelvis,
my brown boot against the shoe below the
blue socked ankle I’m sick without
when one of us moves,
as an act of necessary transference,
I would be stuttered by the bluntness of their coarse soles,
and, knowing I had
burned alive my only card,
I would make a show of just how I had said I would
and look back for the ankle not mine
and be mortified.