don’t hit me with these
words
though back in the ring
you said empty my minima
and no hells barred
it was the palava about the
pavlova that did it
ja a nice little peasant dance
now a gig like that would be good
we balked
at all angles
like, you might specialise in waif
or naif
but the screen door slammed
and then
we filmed the remains his
bronze torso dragged up from depths
twisted in the act of place
dripping with what was once inspired flesh
(the torsion and burnish of Greek
mornings)
‘there’s nothing familiar here’
and ’where’s the rest of me?’
to break the chain of language
to be a singleton
in the dumb god future
proof
don’t hit me with
now again