It is hard to get past that thought,
Him sitting with a pen
It is hard and liquid at the same time
And that is also inside him,
It could move and carve something on to the paper
Or it might not
He worries about being verbose
Or becoming lost in the spewing volcanic clouds of symbolism
He is angry and so sick with anger
He wants to vomit and get it out
And record it.
He sticks the pen
Down the back of his throat
and he writes,
‘I am in red anger
Hot and tight and sore.
A fly is wriggling on its back
Its legs fall upon air and it thinks
‘I am walking upon the clouds’
But stuck, it does not move.
And it sees a huge pinky orange line
Mottled with whorls and waves like dirt dunes
Slowly descending towards it
Until it is upon the fly and
It feels an immense pressure
Bursting it into nothing
The finger wipes itself off with a white tissue
And the invisible ants move in.
